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- Herausgeber: Little Tiger Press
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Serie: Love, Lies & Lemon Pies
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
Love, Lies and Lemon Pies, the debut YA novel from Katy Cannon, is the perfect summer read for fans of Sarah Dessen and Louise Rennison. With a Bake Club recipe at the start of each chapter, this book perfectly captures the current appetite for all things baking! Sixteen-year-old Lottie is on a mission to protect her biggest secret, and it'll take every lie and every baking trick she can muster. Since her dad died, life hasn't been the same for Lottie. When the school suggests she joins Bake Club to get her back on track, Lottie reluctantly agrees. The alternative - the school paying her mum a home visit - is not an option. But Lottie's uncertainty about Bake Club melts away as she rekindles her love of baking and gets caught up with Mac, school rebel and another unwilling Bake Club member. As the end-of-year Bake Off approaches, the tension rises. Can Lottie keep up the façade of her perfect life? And can her bubbling romance with Mac survive the pressure?
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ABOUT THE RECIPES
The recipes in this book are intended as inspiration. Think of them as a starting point on your baking journey. As Lottie, Mac and the gang learn new techniques, tricks and bakes, I hope you will too. But there’s an awful lot more to baking than could fit inside these pages! Experiment with new ingredients and different methods. And I hope you’ll research any unfamiliar baking terms or techniques and give them a go.
If you’re looking for extra information, there is a world of cookery books and online baking sites at your disposal!
Most of all, I hope your bakes are delicious, and that you share them with your friends and family … and me! I’d love to see photos too.
Katy x
CONTENTS
WHAT YOU NEED TO START
A mixing bowl.
A wooden spoon.
A baking tray or tin.
A recipe.
Some ingredients.
And an oven.
There’s lots of baking equipment out there, much of it helpful, some of it not. But when you’re just starting out, you don’t really need any of it. Baking is something everyone can do. All you really need to begin baking is enthusiasm. And a place to cook…
Home is a funny word.
It means different things to different people. Everyone believes that the way they live, the way their family do things, that’s normal. Whatever anyone else does? Just plain weird.
Maybe that means we’re all normal, in our own way. And maybe we’re all a little bit freakish as well.
Still, say “home” to a group and ask them to define it, and you’ll get as many different responses as there are people.
Once they move past the “somewhere to live” thing, and “my family, of course”, that’s when you start to get the real answers. The ones that matter.
Belonging. Comfort. Relaxation. Space.
For some people, it’s a colour. For others, it’s the smell of chocolate chip cookies baking. Or the sound of a favourite band blaring out of the radio.
For Grace, it’s having somebody else there before her, waiting to welcome her home. For Jasper, a safe, dark cocoon, where he can be entirely himself – whoever that is today. For Yasmin, summer sun on her skin and space to breathe. For Ella, the scent of her gran’s lavender perfume.
Mac claimed home was loud music, the stink of oil and the feel of metal under his fingertips. He was lying, but it took us a while to figure that out.
For me? Home is a kitchen. Long clear work surfaces of stainless steel or gleaming wood. Tiny bowls of weighed ingredients, laid out ready for me to mix and fold, stir and create. A shiny silver mixer and cookie cutters in every shape you can imagine.
In my head, I’m a world-famous baker, with people queuing for miles just for a taste of one of my strawberry cupcakes. I’m on the cover of every food magazine, when I’m not busy starring in my own cookery programme.
I know, I know. You don’t have to tell me. I’m strange. Especially for a sixteen-year-old girl.
Anyway, the point is, a year ago I didn’t know what home was any more. Now I do, thanks to Bake Club. And Mac.
GINGER SNAPS
Open packet.
Place on plate.
Serve to unsuspecting students.
The last time I was waiting outside the Head of Year’s office was with all the other Junior and Senior Prefects, ready to receive our shiny badges of responsibility. This time, I hadn’t got a clue what I was there for, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t end with a shiny badge.
Of course, it could be worse. I wasn’t the only one waiting outside the office that day, and I guessed the guy sitting across from me was in a lot more trouble than I was.
I’d like to pretend that I didn’t know instantly who he was, but Will Macintyre wasn’t someone who went unnoticed at our school, even if we hadn’t spent four years in the same junior school class. We’d never had classes together since we started secondary school, but he wasn’t someone you forgot.
Will Macintyre, Mac to practically the whole school, slumped in the chair opposite me, glaring at his hands. His dark curls fell over his forehead, and he looked as if he were contemplating his future. Which, given what little I knew of Mac, didn’t seem very likely.
He looked up, and I wasn’t quick enough to look away before he caught me staring. He raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t expect to see you here. Junior Prefect, and all.”
Were those the first words he’d said to me in the past four years? Probably. Guys like Mac didn’t talk to girls like me.
He leaned back in his chair when I didn’t respond, stretching out his legs in front of him as he eyed me. Just not answering had served me well for the last year. I found eventually people gave up and left me alone.
But not Mac, apparently. Not yet, anyway.
“You’re probably here to pick up some award, right? Top marks for everything, or whatever.”
I looked away, but didn’t answer. Given that my last English essay had only just scraped a B minus, that didn’t seem likely.
“Or maybe you have regular chats with our Head of Year,” Mac went on. “Filling him in on all the latest gossip, catching up.”
He was trying to get a rise from me now. But I’d had a lot more practice at this than him.
Still, maybe it was time to turn the tables.
“What about you?” I asked. “What are you here for today? I mean, as opposed to yesterday. Or every other day. Burn down something new?”
A smile spread across his face.
“So you do know how to talk. I heard people were beginning to think you’d forgotten.”
I stared up at the ceiling. I didn’t care what people were saying about me. And I had no idea why he of all people was listening to the gossip. “I talk when it’s worth my time.”
“I’m worth your time?” Mac said, in mock astonishment. “I’m flattered.”
I rolled my eyes and looked away. Mac didn’t matter to me. Maybe that was why I started talking to him. He wasn’t part of my world. His friends weren’t people I’d hung around with even before the last year. Now I didn’t really hang around with anyone. The chances of our lives intersecting again seemed slim. I had two and a half terms left of Year Eleven, and the last half term of that would be study leave and GCSEs. Then I’d be on to sixth form which, at St Mary’s at least, seemed like a whole different world.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I pointed out. “What are you here for?”
“You didn’t answer mine, either.” Mac folded his hands behind his head and waited.
I looked down at my neatly filed nails. “I heard you smashed up the woodwork room.”
Mac’s smile widened. “Is that what they’re saying? Hell, yeah, I’ll take that.”
“So it’s not true?”
“It’s close enough for this school,” Mac said.
Which wasn’t saying much. St Mary’s Secondary School loved a rumour. And I should know. I’d heard enough of them about me and my family over the last year. Of course, none of them hit anywhere near the truth.
“Lottie?” Mr Carroll stuck his head round the door of his office. “Come on in.”
Smoothing down my school skirt as I stood, I tried to dismiss Mac from my mind as I entered the tiny room. Mr Carroll was already back behind his desk, stacks of papers and exercise books covering most of the surface between us, and a plate of ginger snap biscuits balanced on top of them.
“Sit down,” he said, smiling as if we were friends, as if this were an everyday occurrence. Which it really, really wasn’t. “Biscuit?”
Biting my lip, I shook my head, trying to stop my mind from whirling, to think of a reason for the Head of Year to call me in. My first panicked response had been that something bad had happened. But then I realized if that was the case, he wouldn’t have casually asked me to stop by at lunchtime when he saw me in the corridor that morning. I knew exactly what happened when there was a real tragedy. The school secretary, with her big sad eyes, showed up at your classroom, and took you out to where the Head was waiting. I knew because it had happened to me a year ago.
“I’m sure you’ve got an idea why I asked you to come in today,” Mr Carroll said, selecting a ginger snap from the plate.
I stayed quiet. I didn’t think I haven’t a clue was the answer he was looking for.
Unfazed by my lack of response, Mr Carroll sat back in his chair and studied me, exactly as Mac had done. The comparison made me want to laugh, but that probably wasn’t the reaction Mr Carroll wanted, either.
“I’ve had a number of your teachers speak to me over the last few months,” he said after a moment. “All concerned about you.”
“I’m fine,” I said. My default answer in these situations.
Mr Carroll flipped open a file. “You’ve dropped out of all your after-school activities, even the band. You’ve given up your Junior Prefect duties, which makes your chances of being appointed a Senior Prefect in sixth form slim. You’ve stopped volunteering at school fundraisers, stopped taking part in events and assemblies.”
“That’s because my GCSEs are coming up,” I said. “My mum and I thought I should focus on my school work.” It was almost the truth. Mum probably hadn’t noticed I’d dropped anything. But the focus part was true. I needed good grades if I wanted to get away from home and do … something.
“Which would be admirable, except your grades are erratic too.” Mr Carroll’s eyebrows furrowed slightly as he read through my file, chewing on his biscuit. “Even in subjects you’ve always loved and excelled at. Your teachers say you seem to have lost enthusiasm for everything.”
“It’s been a hard year,” I said, and stared straight at him, watching as he fumbled to turn the page. “I’m sure you can appreciate why I might be feeling a little less enthusiastic than normal.”
“Of course,” he said. “You know how very sorry we are for your loss. And, as a community, the school has tried to be as supportive as it can since your father … passed. But…”
There was a “but”? How could there be a “but”? Mine had to be the best possible reason for not wanting to get stuck into school shows and harvest fairs. How could they possibly expect those things to matter to me when Dad was dead?
“But we’re worried about you,” Mr Carroll finished, and I felt some of my annoyance fade.
“I’m fine,” I repeated, a bit more firmly this time, and reached for a ginger snap, as if that would prove it.
“Are you?” Leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk, Mr Carroll gave me a solemn, concerned look. “Lottie, you’ve been through more than any teenager should have to this past year. It’s understandable that you might look at school, and life, and people differently. But turning inward isn’t the answer. When times are hard, you need people around you, you need support and friendship and help.”
Obviously Mr Carroll had no idea exactly how unhelpful my friends had been, letting me push them away because they couldn’t cope with me and my grief. But I didn’t need them. Besides, friends weren’t the problem. The problem was that I spent so long trying to make every assignment perfect, re-copying my notes until they were flawless, that I ran out of time to do everything. Which usually left me with one or two model assignments, and four or five rushed ones.
“I’ve spoken with your form tutor, and she confirms that you’ve been withdrawn for months now. Maybe even depressed. She said you’d lost weight…”
“I have not!” I took a defiant bite of my biscuit.
“Well, regardless. I spoke to the school guidance counsellor, and she agreed that you could benefit from some sessions with her.”
I felt the first pangs of panic in my chest, but when I started to object, Mr Carroll simply held up his hand and spoke over me. “I know you saw a counsellor last year, but I think talking to someone again could help, now some time has passed.”
“I don’t need a counsellor,” I said. “I’m fine.”
Mr Carroll sighed. “No, Lottie, you’re not.”
“So this is compulsory?”
“Until we can see that you’re interacting more, being part of the school again, putting effort into your classes… Yes, I’m afraid it is.”
I searched for an argument, something I could use to stop this, but came up blank. Apparently just telling people I was fine wasn’t proof enough any more.
“Mrs Tyler, the counsellor, also suggested that it might be worthwhile for her to talk to your mum. Either here at the school or, if it’s more comfortable, maybe at your house?”
“No!”
That absolutely could not happen. Ever.
I don’t know if the horror I felt came across in my voice, but Mr Carroll obviously saw a weakness and latched on to it.
“Mrs Tyler has very close ties to social services,” he went on, watching me carefully. “Even if you don’t think you need to talk to someone, perhaps your mum does. After all, she lost someone as well.”
And she gained so much more. The joke bubbled up and I swallowed down my urge to laugh hysterically. This was serious. This was dangerous.
I needed a way out. A way to convince them I was fine.
Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I called on my Drama Club training – another abandoned hobby – to act unhappy but resigned. Mr Carroll needed to believe I was opening up to him, even if really I wasn’t.
“Mr Carroll, look. I know I’ve been a bit … distracted lately. And I know that this year is important, and I need to get my grades back up. But it’s been really hard reconnecting with my friends, after everything.” I paused for maximum effect before saying, “I know I have to … move on, eventually. I just don’t think I can go back to being exactly who I was before.”
I glanced up to see if he was buying it and, behind his softening features, I spotted a flyer pinned to his noticeboard. That flyer changed the whole year for me. It had a picture of a cupcake, decorated with jolly pink sprinkles, and the words Bake Club in a curly font underneath. Suddenly I remembered Miss Anderson talking about the new club she was starting, for Year Tens and Elevens who wanted to learn to bake, even if they weren’t taking food tech GCSE.
“I want to start something new,” I said, looking at him with conviction. “Which is why I thought I’d join the new Bake Club after half-term.”
“The Bake Club?” Disbelief coloured Mr Carroll’s voice.
“Absolutely,” I said, beginning to warm to the idea. “My dad and I always used to bake together. It’s something I’ve really missed this year.” A good dose of truth to help convince him. I had missed baking. And when Miss Anderson had announced the new club I’d thought, just for a moment, about joining. Before the thought of actually having to deal with other people put me off. Still, if I had to convince the school that I was a normal girl with interests and hobbies, Bake Club could work. It was new, so I wouldn’t be walking into a group that already had its own cliques and rules. And it was being run by Miss Anderson, the new food technology teacher who’d just moved from America at the start of the year, who I liked.
And, on top of everything else, it would give me an excuse to stay away from home for an hour or two longer, at least one day a week. An advantage not to be ignored.
“It might even help me with my food tech GCSE,” I added.
“Well, that’s … good, then.” Mr Carroll frowned again. “But I still want you to keep these appointments with Mrs Tyler.” He handed me a slip of paper with some times printed on it and a room number.
I took the paper with reluctance. In the space of ten minutes, I’d become the guidance counsellor’s pet project, as well as a wannabe baker. But as long as it kept her – and social services – out of my house, I wasn’t going to complain.
Dismissed at last, I walked out of the office, Mr Carroll following close behind. I heard him sigh as he opened the door to stare out at Mac.
“Mr Macintyre,” he said wearily. “You’d better come in.”
I raised my eyebrows at Mac, who casually got to his feet as if he were doing Mr Carroll a favour by being there at all. “Have fun,” I said.
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure. Maybe they’ll even kick me out this time.”
Maybe they would. Maybe his luck had run out and whatever he’d done would be enough to get him expelled.
But it wasn’t.
And it turned out I’d just given Mr Carroll a much better idea for Mac’s punishment.
CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES
1. Heat the oven to 180ºC/fan 160ºC/gas 4.
2. Cream together 125g of softened unsalted butter and 200g of light muscovado sugar in a bowl using a mixer, or wooden spoon.
3. Mix in 1 tsp of vanilla extract and a lightly beaten egg.
4. Sift in 200g of plain flour, ½ tsp of baking powder and a pinch of salt.
5. Stir until just combined, then fold through 200g of chocolate chips.
6. Place spoonfuls of cookie mixture on to a greased and lined baking tray, making sure to leave room for spreading.
7. Bake for 15 to 20 minutes, until they turn a pale golden colour.
I wasn’t really prepared for how much courage it would take to walk into the food tech classroom that first week. I’d grown too used to staying out of things, to being alone. But I’ve always been stubborn; I’d said I would join Bake Club and so I had to go. Of course, that didn’t stop my heart banging around my ribcage as I neared the classroom. Head high, shoulders straight, just like Dad had always taught me, I pushed open the door and walked in.
For a brief moment, the room fell silent as the other students looked up and saw me. Miss Anderson glanced at me and smiled, but then turned her attention back to the paper on her desk. And then, of course, the whispers started. The same hiss hiss noise I’d heard all year. People didn’t know what to say to my face, so they whispered it behind my back. As if I couldn’t guess exactly what they were saying anyway.
I ignored it, just like I’d been doing for the last twelve months, not stopping to look around until I reached the empty workstation at the back of the room. I was taking part, just like I’d promised Mr Carroll. I didn’t have to like it.
From my position, I could see everyone – or at least the backs of their heads. The room was split into back to back workstations on either side, with sinks between them, set in counters that ran against the classroom wall. There were twelve in total.
Leaning against the workstation in front of me was Yasmin, an Indian girl I’d been partnered with in geography once in Year Eight, who had spent the whole time talking about her older brothers, one in the army, the other applying to study at Oxford. Across from her was Jasper, known throughout the school as “that weird Goth kid” since he’d shown up on the first day of this term with his blond hair dyed jet black. And on the other side of the room, at the workstation nearest Miss Anderson’s desk, was Grace. The pretty one. The popular one. The queen of Drama Club, who’d barely acknowledged my existence even before I chose to become a social outcast. I should have known she’d want to rule this group too.
Miss Anderson clapped her hands together and the murmurings fell silent. “I’m so delighted to see you all here today! When I said I wanted to start a baking club, well … not everyone thought it would get off the ground. So thank you for proving me right.” She beamed as she glanced round the classroom and I looked away before she caught my eye. “My inspiration for the club, actually, was this.” When I looked back, Miss Anderson was holding up a brightly coloured poster, with a garishly decorated cake on the front, and the words National Schools’ Bake-Off written in a swirly font that looked a bit like icing. “It’s a big new contest and parts of it might be featured on television!”
The faces of the kids around me didn’t echo her enthusiasm. In fact, everyone looked faintly horrified at the prospect. Myself included.
Judging the mood of the crowd, Miss Anderson put the poster down. “Anyway. We’ll see how we get on. But I’ll send off for the information pack, just in case.” She clapped again. “Right, then. Take your seats and we’ll get started. Since it’s our first week, I thought we’d go with a classic. As you can see, I’ve got three stations set up with all the necessary ingredients. Next week, I’ll need you to bring your own, but today I’ve supplied them for you.”
Three stations and four students meant somebody had to share. Thank God I’d grabbed the lonely one at the back. Jasper jumped up from his stool, obviously realizing at last that the workstation he’d sat down at didn’t have the same recipe card and ingredients that the others did. He glanced around him and I held my breath until he grinned at Yasmin, joining her on the other side of their stations. I was still alone.
At least, until the door flew open again and Will Macintyre barrelled in, all untucked shirt and messy dark hair.
“Ah, Will. You made it.” Miss Anderson actually seemed pleased to see him, unlike any other teacher at St Mary’s. “We’re just about to start. Why don’t you team up with Lottie, at the back?”
And, just like that, my quiet baking time was over.
As Miss Anderson started talking us through some baking basics I already knew, I took the opportunity to watch the boy who’d claimed a fifty per cent share in my chocolate chip cookies. He looked in an even worse mood than he had earlier in the week outside Mr Carroll’s office.
“And now, it’s over to you,” Miss Anderson said, with a little more excitement than I felt was strictly necessary. “Just follow the recipe and you’ll be fine.”
At our station, Mac turned to me and scowled. “You’re just everywhere this week, aren’t you?”
“Apparently so.” I gave him a too-bright smile. “Aren’t you lucky?”
“I was going to go with cursed,” Mac said, but his scowl lightened up a bit, so I figured he was probably joking.
“You ever made cookies before?”
Mac shrugged. “Never made much of anything before.”
I paused with my fingers about to reset the scales and looked up at him. “Sooo … what are you doing here, then? Experienced a sudden urge to learn about pastry, or something?”
His laugh was sharp, with no humour in it. “Yeah, right,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his words. “You don’t think I’d be doing this by choice, do you? Not all of us want to spend our free time at school.”
I busied myself with the flour again. I wasn’t there by choice, whatever he thought. But I didn’t want Mac asking questions about why I had to attend. Better for him to think I just loved baking. Which, actually, was sort of the truth. Now I was back in the kitchen, I was beginning to remember all the things Dad and I had loved about baking together. Even before cupcakes became cool and people started competing on national TV to make the best Battenberg, my dad was teaching me how to bake, the same way his mum taught him.
So, while other dads taught their kids to throw a ball or mow the lawn or whatever, mine taught me to dust berries in flour before folding them into the muffin mix, and how to pipe perfect icing.
Maybe a club wasn’t my sort of thing any more. But there was a definite appeal in rediscovering the fun of being up to your elbows in icing sugar. Since Dad died there hadn’t been many opportunities for cake making. Or fun.
“So, why are you really here?” I asked Mac, wondering if he’d confirm my suspicions about Mr Carroll making him come. While I waited for an answer, I measured the chocolate chips into a bowl. With every ingredient neatly weighed and arranged in order of use in front of me, I was almost ready to start baking.
Mac ignored my question entirely. Boosting himself up to sit on the counter, he said, “You know no one else is doing this, right?”
“Doing what?” I straightened the bowls, and set about reading through the recipe again. Whatever Mac’s reasons for being there that afternoon, they clearly didn’t involve helping me make cookies. He hadn’t even put on an apron.
He waved his hand over the counter. “Whatever you’re doing with the fiddly little bowls.”
“It’s important to weigh out your ingredients before you start,” I said. But, looking around, it was clear that no one else had bothered. Not even Miss Anderson, working with Grace at the front. Bags of flour and sugar and chocolate chips lay strewn across Yasmin and Jasper’s counter, and they were arguing over the mixing bowl. I looked at my neat bowls and alphabetized bags of ingredients. Yeah, OK, so I was a freak. But a freak with logic.
“If you have everything ready in advance, there’s less chance of surprises while you’re baking.”
“Surprises can be good.” A smile spread across Mac’s face. The sort of hinting, taunting smile I hate.
I reached for the butter. “Not in my experience.”
“Then clearly you don’t have much experience.”
My cheeks burned. Why did I have to blush so easily. I turned to tip the butter into the mixing bowl, hoping Mac wouldn’t notice my red face, but from the way his grin widened even further, he did.
“So, what do we do?” Mac asked, peering over my shoulder at the recipe. “Cream butter and sugar? What the hell does that mean? Sounds dirty…”
I tried to keep a straight face, and failed. “Why am I not surprised that’s the first thing you think of?”
He smirked back at me. “Admit it. You were thinking it too.”
I didn’t answer that one. “All it means is that we have to beat them together until they’re creamy.” I glanced around the classroom. There were only two stand mixers in the class and since the others hadn’t bothered getting their ingredients in order, they were already both in use. At one, Miss Anderson and Grace had their heads bent over the mixing bowl, talking quietly. At the other, Jasper was gleefully tipping in chocolate chips, while Yasmin tried to brush flour off her school uniform.
“We’ll have to wait for a turn with one of the stand mixers. Unless there’s a hand one in here somewhere…” I started opening cupboards under the counter, but Mac leaned across me, and I could feel the warmth of his body over mine.
“Says here we can use a wooden spoon,” he said, brandishing one. “Hand over the bowl.”
I clutched the mixing bowl against my apron. “We can, but it’s hard work and it takes forever. Be quicker to wait for a mixer.” Which wasn’t quite the same as saying, I’m a lazy weakling, but probably came close.
Mac tapped the counter with his spoon. “Give it here.”
Reluctantly, I passed the bowl to him, with its perfectly measured and weighed, cubed room-temperature butter inside, ready for beating.
I managed almost a minute of watching him bash at the butter with the spoon before I grabbed it back. “Not like that. Like this.” Demonstrating, I pressed through the butter with my spoon, beating it smooth until my arm burned with the ache.
“I got it.” Mac grabbed the bowl and copied my movements perfectly, only stronger and faster.
Miss Anderson wandered past, doing the rounds, checking in to see how we were doing. “That’s looking great, Will,” she said.
He glared at her. “It’s Mac. Everyone knows that.”
Miss Anderson’s permanent happy face slipped. “Well, you know, I’m new here. I’ll remember for future,” she said, and she moved on towards Jasper and Yasmin.
“She’s nice, you know,” I said.
“She’s a teacher.” Mac shoved the bowl towards me. “What’s next?”
“OK, so now we add in the sugar.” Selecting the next bowl from my line-up, I poured in the sugar and motioned for Mac to start beating again, trying not to feel too guilty about wimping out. After all, we were partners today. He was supposed to be helping, and I’d already done all the prep work.
“So why are you here?” Mac asked, turning the question he hadn’t answered back on me. Sneaky. “I mean, you obviously already know how to do this stuff. Why not just bake at home?”
I turned to straighten the bottle of vanilla extract so the label faced the front. “Thought I might learn some new techniques, maybe. And baking at home can be kind of lonely.”
I hadn’t meant to add that last part. I mean, it was true – since Dad died, baking alone didn’t hold so much appeal. But that wasn’t why I didn’t do it. And besides, being alone hadn’t been a problem until Mr Carroll made it one.
Mac didn’t get the chance to press any further, because Jasper popped up beside our station, leaning over the worktop to get a look in our bowl. “Is that easier than using the mixers?”
“No,” Mac and I both answered.
“Damn. I figured something had to be.” Jasper leaned forward even further, and I rescued the bag of sugar from his path before it went flying.
“What problems are you having with the mixer?” I asked.
Jasper gestured to his shirt. “Everything just keeps flying out!”
Handing him a damp cloth, I said, “Let me guess. You dumped all the flour in at once?”
“The recipe said ‘add flour’,” Jasper said defensively, as he dabbed at his shirt. “So I added the flour.”
“It works better if you add it a bit at a time. Or even fold in the flour by hand.” It felt natural discussing baking techniques, in a way I hadn’t expected. Apparently talking to people was one of those skills you didn’t forget. Or maybe Mac and Jasper were just easier to talk to than my old friends.
Jasper gave me a curious look. “How do you know this stuff?”
“She’s a master baker,” Mac told him. “Why do you think I paired up with her?”
“Because Miss Anderson told you to,” Jasper said, before flashing me a grin and heading back to Yasmin.
I shook my head. Despite his Goth appearance, he acted like an eager puppy. I heard him yelling, “Lottie says we were doing it wrong,” as he went.
Great. Now Yasmin would think I was a know-it-all. Normally I wouldn’t care, but I was pretty sure Mr Carroll – or the guidance counsellor – would want a report on all the new friends I’d made at Bake Club. Which probably meant I should make some.
Mac ignored Jasper’s yelling, choosing instead to shove his mixing bowl under my nose. “This done yet?”
Amazingly, it was. Pale and creamy and perfect. It would have taken me three times as long to do it by hand. “You must have good muscles,” I said, then winced. “I mean…”
But this time, Mac either didn’t notice my blush or ignored it. “It’s working at my dad’s garage that does it.”
I’d never thought much about what Mac did in his spare time. If I had, I’d have guessed troublemaking and possibly criminal damage as his favourite hobbies, given his record. The idea of him actually working took me a little by surprise.
“I guess cars are more your sort of thing than cakes.” I poured in the vanilla extract and the beaten egg, then waved a hand to tell him to mix again. It was like having my very own, gorgeous, human KitchenAid.
“Cars, I understand.” Mac nodded towards the recipe card. “This stuff makes no sense to me.”
“That’s only because you haven’t learned. Baking techniques can’t be any harder than fixing a car.” He didn’t look convinced, so I went on. “I mean, with a car, once you know what’s wrong, what’s supposed to be where, and what does what, you can make it work, right?”
“If it’s fixable.” Mac held out the bowl again and I took it from him, setting it on the counter and placing the sieve on top.
“Well, baking’s the same. I know if I sieve the flour in, it’ll give the mixture more air, and make my cookies lighter. Once you know what to do and why, it all comes down to practice.” I might not have practised much in the past year, but Dad’s lessons were ingrained. As soon as I’d stood in that classroom, everything had started to come back to me. “When you’ve got the basics down, it’s all just following instructions.”
“I never was very good at that.” Mac gave me a lopsided grin. “There are usually so many more fun things to do.”
I really wasn’t going to think about what a guy like Mac did for fun.
“Well, follow these instructions and you get cookies.”
“There is that.” Mac held out the bowl. “Do I get to sample the chocolate chips?”
“I have exactly the right quantity of chips for this recipe,” I told him sternly. “Do not mess with the ingredients.”
He pulled a sad face, but tipped in all the chocolate chips anyway.
“If we’re ready,” Miss Anderson called across the class, “the oven is at temperature. Bring me your baking trays, and I’ll pop them in for you.”
“We’re not ready, are we?” Mac asked, looking into the bowl with confusion.
I pulled out my greased and lined baking tray. “Nearly. We just need to spoon the mixture on to here.”
“Even I can do that.” Mac grabbed the wooden spoon and dolloped a huge blob of cooking dough on to the tray, scraping it off the spoon with his fingers.
“Not like that!” There was, I’ll admit, a hint of a shriek in my voice. But in my defence, he was doing it all wrong.
“Then how?” Mac asked, exasperated.
“Like this.” Pulling two teaspoons from the drawer, I showed him how to fill the tray with evenly sized balls of dough, each perfectly spaced to allow for spreading while they cooked.
“How do you get them all the same size?”
“Practice.” Eyeing the tray, I spotted one cookie dollop with more chocolate chips and fished one out to press it into a cookie with fewer.
“Perfectionism,” Mac countered.
I ignored him. “Want to take these over to Miss Anderson?” I asked. “After all, you did all the hard work.”
Mac pushed the tray towards me. “Only because you told me what to do. You take them.”
The chocolate chip cookies only took twenty minutes to bake, which was supposed to give us time to clear up. Instead, when I got back from talking to Miss Anderson about the best way to rotate the trays to ensure even baking, I found the rest of the group standing around my neat and tidy workstation.
“We’re doing A Midsummer Night’s Dream in Drama Club,” Grace said, as I tried to get past them to the sink to start washing up. “You should think about auditioning, Mac.”
Mac snorted, but moved out of my way at least. “I think one after-school club is enough for me, don’t you?”
“How did you get roped into this, anyway?” Jasper asked, obviously as curious as me about Mac’s sudden interest in baking.
I tried not to look guilty. But Mac just shrugged. “Wrong place at the wrong time,” he said, which was possibly more true than he knew.
“Well, I’m partnering with Lottie next week.” Jasper grinned at me. “She’s the one who really knows what she’s doing.” Apparently Mac’s “master baker” comment meant I’d be spending a lot of time showing other people what to do.
“And right now,” Miss Anderson called, “she’s doing the washing up, like I asked you all to.”
There were a few grumbles as people wandered back to their incredibly messy workstations, but Mac just grabbed a tea towel and started drying the bowls I’d already washed. And by the time we were done, the timer was going off to tell us the cookies were ready.
“We really should let them cool…” Miss Anderson started. Then she smiled. “But they do taste best warm.” Sliding them off the trays on to plates, she let us dive in.
I held back a moment, wanting to choose the right cookie, but before I could even get close enough to figure out which one looked best, Mac handed me one. It was too big, crispy at the edges and soft in the middle, with the chocolate chips unevenly spread through it. It could only be the result of Mac’s overenthusiastic dolloping of dough on to the tray.
“My first home-made cookie,” he said. “Seemed only fair that you get to eat it.”
“I’m so, so honoured,” I said.
And actually, I was.
