Page 16 of Cakes for the Grump

And it’s not so many ingredients that I feel overly guilty for skimming a few things off of Luke’s pantry. Especially since he’s super rich, and also since I plan to replace the ingredients with my next paycheck.

Trying not to overthink it or get overwhelmed, and feeling as if a tornado is now at my feet, I dive in.

SIX

With unfortunate timing,just as I finish cleaning up the kitchen (erasing the evidence), Luke walks in wearing a three-piece suit.

I wonder if being aggressivelyvisually appealingis a technique he uses in his meetings to disarm opponents and win more deals. As a supplementary aide, his blonde hair is perfectly tousled with an attitude that causes one to imagine him running of his own fingers through it as he stands basked in artistic light and thoughtful repose. It’s devilishly roguish.

Fallen angel tempting mortals to sin, I think again, finding myself momentarily speechless.

Luke, however, is not.

“What are you still doing here?” he demands.

I can’t admit I co-opted his kitchen for personal reasons without permission and had to work overtime to recover because that will lead to more questions. So instead I stammer, “T-the cake.”

“Yes.” Luke looks to the kitchen island where a pink chiffon cake waits for collection.

“It took longer than expected,” I argue.

“Is that so?”

He walks over to the cake and bends his head down to inspect the creation. Visually, it looks like an oversized flattened donut made of sponge. Regular chiffon cakes are yellow in appearance, but this one is light pinksince I added rose tea-infused water to the batter. Yet at first glance, even with the rose tea addition, there is a quality of simplicity to the whole thing.

Even the ingredients support this opinion: eggs, sugar, vegetable oil, flour, and optional rose tea buds for flavoring. That being said, I can spout off soliloquies regarding its ethereal lightness, the foaminess of eggs turned into meringue, and the sheer muscle strength required to beat in maximum fluffiness to the batter. There areaeration propertiesat work. And the chiffon cake differs from its closely related cousin—the traditional sponge cake—in that it uses oil instead of butter to achieve a more tender, more moist crumb. Though in support of how Luke is currently raising one haughty eyebrow as he looks down at the donut, what is not so delicate is the frosting work at the top.

It’s rustically applied.

And rather one-dimensional in contrast to the finesse achieved by the Kremna rezina I made last week. That was a luscious cream cake, golden pastry, artful vanilla custard, whipped cream, and thin, buttery dough topped with icing sugar.

The frosting work today is a near-sighted child finger painting while distracted by their favorite television program.

“Thisis what took you so long?” says Luke, doing very little to hide his obvious disbelief. “How strange considering you usually flee the premises right after your shift, a decision I fully support as it avoids us having to see each other.”

“Seeing as I know you don’t have enough rudimentary knowledge to microwave a cake in a coffee mug, I don’t believe you would understand how long a cake takes to prepare. I had to supervise the steeping of the rose tea buds in hot water. The process is delicate and requires special attention.”

Technically-mostly-kind-of-true, though I was a poor supervisor today. The buds steeped far too long, so the flavor of the tea is too aromatic, which means the cake is going to be heavily floral. All because I was busy submitting my Tandoori Mac ‘N’ Cheese to the CUM competition.

His eyebrow goes up. ”Should I have a slice to see what all the fuss is about?”

“I—”

What? He never eats my cake! He’s already called my food serviceable before, and for this to be the first sweet item of mine to indulge in…

Hecan’t!

Luke’s eyes are gleaming as if he has somehow caught a whiff of my duplicity and is keen to uncover it. He grabs a knife from the drawer and is rummaging around for a plate while I attempt to ward off early-stage hyperventilation.

This can’t be happening. Should I come clean? Perhaps I’ll tell him a half-truth of how a contest caught my attention, and I wanted to enter as a way to test my abilities against other talented cooks. Nothing serious. Nothing to give away how desperately the prize money would change my life, and how interviewing at MealKits Masala could be the opening I’ve been waiting my whole life to get.

Maybe he’ll enjoy the single portion of Mac ‘N’ Cheese I’ve squirreled away in a container hidden in the back of the fridge?

Then again, he might fire me because I used his kitchen without permission. Or will he fire me for sub-standard baking if he tastes this cake? I don’t know him well enough to know for certain.

Luke finds a plate and is poised to slice into the chiffon cake when I jolt forward and grab his arm. The bicep underneath is stone-hard. “Don’t ruin the presentation,” I beg. “Save it for your guests. If you cut into it prematurely, it’ll make the cake appear more homely than it should be.”

“I don’t think more homeliness is possible.”