Disclaimer: This story is purely a work of fiction for personal enjoyment. The story does NOT describe real events and the characters are fictional. Any resemblance to real events or persons is coincidence.
In keeping with its fictional nature, the events and activities described in the story may not be legal, ethical or safe. This site does NOT endorse or recommend their enactment.
Note: Naturally, because I tried to guess when I would finish this part last time, I had far less opportunity to work on it than expected. So this time I won’t even estimate when the conclusion will be out. Anyway, hope you enjoy the second installment.
The Blue Ribbon Bake-Off
9 AM
Claire Danning looked herself over one last time in a compact mirror before getting out of her car. Everything had to be perfect. Because despite what they may say, in the Bake-Off at the Fallfax County Fair, appearance is practically everything. No matter how good their culinary arts, no one homely was ever going to win the blue ribbon. And Claire wanted that ribbon, more than just about anything…
She stepped out onto the gravel of the fairgrounds parking lot and straightened her sundress. It was dark blue-green, dotted with pale yellow flowers. The dress came to her knees and hugged her pleasing curves at the waist. Sleeveless, it showed off both her lightly tanned shoulders and a pair of strappy teal sandals she’d had to order online for the occasion. In fact, the entire outfit had been planned meticulously months in advance. Claire had even dyed her hair; she told people she was just looking to try something different, but the deep, subtle red color was carefully chosen to look as striking as possible with the dress. Some unknown saboteur had been spreading the rumor, patently false, that the color was intended to cover-up a few early grays. She touched her long hair lightly. It was currently pinned up in a basic chignon, with locks at the sides in front of her ears left free and curled slightly. The whole thing was held in place with ample hairspray, and she considered adding just a bit more, for reassurance.
But then another car pulled up, parking behind her. Claire was certainly not going to be caught preening last-minute by some potential competitor. She picked up the basket of baking in the backseat and headed towards the Bake-Off tent.
In her pursuit of victory, Claire had spent almost as much time on her recipes as her appearance. At the Fallfax County Fair Bake-Off, the only category the really mattered was Pies and Tarts; if you were a serious contender at all, you knew the rest were just for show. She was packing a dynamite blueberry pie, from a recipe dug out of an ancient cookbook at the Odenville library. The secret was adding ginger, just a little bit, but it was going to be the extra something that put her over the top. She also had a back-up; a respectable strawberry-rhubarb, just in case. Claire also brought a batch of oatmeal-cranberry cookies which her husband always raved about, because it was important not to seem entirely focused on the competition, even if she was. Walter, unlike Claire, wasn’t originally from Fallfax County, so he never understood why his wife put herself through such an ordeal every year just to see someone else win. He would come later in the day, but there was no reason for him to show up so early. Claire always sighed when he questioned why she had to get there before the Fair even opened.
“Because,” she explained, “that’s what winners do.”
Claire arrived at the Bake-Off tent. It was a big white, nylon thing, supported by a framework of metal pipes, which were in turn hung with festival lights. Inside a forest of folding tables was assembled in a series of shrinking rectangles, open at the corners to allow passage. The tables were mostly empty now, but soon enough they would be hidden beneath a wide array of baked-goods and confections. Claire allowed herself a silent, derisive scoff. There were only about half-a-dozen competitors, including her and a few that followed her in, already setting up. The field was narrowing already.
She began staking out a prime table and trying out different arrangements of tiny sample plates, forks, and napkins. From behind, an all too familiar voice called out a greeting.
“Claire! You’re here early too! Lovely!”
Amy Fields. Claire made a point of being at least basically polite toward everyone she met, but no one tried her patience quite like Amy. In truth, it was their similarities, more than their differences, which drove them to conflict. Both women were the same age, both successful and popular in their circles, both women were about equally more attractive than average; the rivalry was the result of repeatedly chasing the same goals at the same time. Traditionally when their paths crossed socially, they would exchange strained pleasantries and move on. However, for the last couple of years, the sense of competition between the two had been intensifying. This new fire in their long-time enmity was sparked two years ago, when Amy entered the Bake-Off at the Fair, and beat Claire.
Admittedly, the women finished in 4th and 5th places respectively, but the incident struck Claire like a bolt of lightning. It both galvanized and enraged her. Last year, Claire earned the 2nd place red ribbon, while Amy took 3rd place. Everything was going to change this year though, because the long-reigning Bake-Off Champion of the Pies and Tarts category was officially retired from competition. This year, either Amy or Claire would walk away victorious.
Claire turned to face her rival, a happy smile spread disingenuously across her face.
“Amy, dear! So good to see you! It’s been far too long!”
Amy was wearing a sundress as well, though hers was pale pink, with a soft blue bow tied at her waist. Her dress was tighter than Claire’s, and shorter. Typical. Amy’s yellow-blonde hair usually fell just past her shoulders, however for the Bake-Off she had it up in a bun at the back of her neck. She used some kind of styling product to sweep the hair off her brow and to the side; it held perfectly in place above her forehead looking shiny and stiff. She had also twisted a small bunch of violets together and tucked them behind her ear. Claire kicked herself for not thinking of that. The violet was the state flower, and it was a nice touch.
“So, Claire, how’s the husband? Not here yet, I assume?”
“Oh he’s fine, thanks! And no, he’ll be by later. What about you? How’s… business?”
Amy was one of the most successful realtors in the area, but she wasn’t married. It was one of the things Claire liked to lord over her.
“Business is excellent!” Amy’s eyes flashed briefly, “In fact, I was just at the office this morning, clearing some space on the wall. I’ll need it after today, for the blue ribbon…”
Claire laughed lightly, waving her hand as if the whole thing was a friendly joke.
“I’m sure, I’m sure. But I guess we’ll see, won’t we? Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish setting up before the judges get here.”
Amy gave Claire a smirk disguised as a cheerful smile and prowled off to her own table.
The next hour passed in a state of controlled panic. More competitors arrived and the desserts multiplied. Claire obsessed over all the little details, until she was sure that everything was as near perfect as she could achieve. She sat back and stood guard over her display, while carefully observing everyone around her.
Outside the Bake-Off tent, the Fair was just coming to life. Laughing children tugged bleary-eyed adults from booth to booth. A very small crowd gathered to watch the contestants set up their wares. Some were gawking at the desserts, but most, Claire suspected, at the women laying them out. Before long, there was some commotion at the front of the tent.
It was Freddie Milton, in his top hat and hideous yellow coat, playing ring leader for the annual media circus. Claire sat up straight and put on her best smile. The local celebrities fanned out across the tent, shaking hands and admiring pastries, while the cameras snapped and recorded. The King of the Fair had more prosaic reasons for always making the Bake-Off one of the first stops on the tour; he liked to sample the treats while they were still warm.
Mr Milton floated along the aisles, pinching up proffered cookies and small desserts. Soon he had made his way down to Claire’s table. He greeted her with a wink and a twitch of his big gray handlebar mustache.
“Oh ho ho, Mrs Danning! Delighted to see you as always!”
“Your highness,” Claire replied, “How’s the competition shaping up this year?”
“Hmm. Tough to say, what with our reigning champion out of the running. Although, as I imagine you well know, you’re one of the favorites for the top spot… Along with your friend, Ms Fields.”
Maybe he saw Claire’s expression flicker, but either way, he decided it was time to move on. He accepted a cookie gratefully and continued on with his sampling. The rest of the tour had met their quota for small-talk and photo-ops, and were bunched together in the middle of the tent, waiting to move on. One of them, a pretty dark-haired woman with sunglasses pushed up on her head, walked over to Claire’s table. She was one of the anchors at the local news station, but Claire couldn’t recall her name.
“Hello! I’m with the tour here. By the looks of things, this isn’t your first Fair, so you know that we’re filming this tour?”
Claire nodded, slightly raising an eyebrow.
“Excellent! Well, because we’re here early, we’re not really getting as much of the true Bake-Off experience, you know, with everyone still setting up. We were hoping we could get a few of you together who came early, the well-prepared ones, and get a few photos. You know, really sell the atmosphere?”
“Sure,” Claire really didn’t have any problem with a bit of media coverage, after all she had been in the paper each time she’d placed at previous Bake-Offs. “Do you want us to go stand somewhere, or what?”
“We want to be sure and get the delicious food in the there, so just stay put. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of this!” The TV woman snapped her fingers rather aggressively at a pair of large men speaking quietly to Mr Milton. She directed them to carefully move two dessert laden tables over to each side of Claire’s. This rearrangement was throwing off the whole flow of the tent, but the brunette woman didn’t seem to mind.
The men placed chairs at the tables and a woman sat down. Claire gave her a small wave.
“Hi Betty. How are you?”
Betty Gardner-Eames was a perennial also-ran at the Bake-Off. Although her baking was never more than middling, her family was one of the most well-established in Odenville, and so they were a fixture at the Fair. Betty was on the young side, for a socialite, and had a habit of always seeming slightly bored. This morning she was dressed in a strapless black dress with white pinstripes and she had a black headband in her ash-blonde A-line bob. Despite her mild case of ennui, Betty was always nice, and certainly no competition, so she and Claire were always friendly.
Betty smiled back blandly, fixing her hair.
“Oh, you know, things are as good as ever. Looking forward to seeing this picture in the paper. I can hear the caption already; ‘The first, second, and twelfth place finishers, at the such-and-such annual Bake-Off…”
Claire grinned, but inwardly glowered. That could only mean one thing…
“So Claire, here we are again! I have to say, your spread looks delectable, let’s just hope it tastes that way too!”
Amy Fields sat down on Claire’s left, smirking. Before she had time to snap back, the TV woman called them to order.
“Alright ladies, this is great. Just smile for the camera! That’s it, perfect! Stellar. Ok, just one more, now everybody stand up for this one. We’re going to take it vertical, a wide shot, get some of the hustle and bustle in the background. Right there, that’s great! Alright, smile!”
The photographer eagerly clicked away, the digital camera imitating the sound of a shutter. The strobe flashed one last time. Just before they sat down, everyone turned, distracted by some high-pitched shouting coming from outside. A troop of school-aged children rushed past the tent, chanting something and waving money.
Once the swarm of children passed, all three women took their seats, while the photographer snapped a few candid shots, just in case. Later, when he went to sort through his take for the day, he realized that none of the pictures at the tail-end were usable at all. For some bizarre reason, as soon as she sat down, Claire Danning pulled a horrible face…
Claire knew what had happened almost immediately. As soon as her butt hit the chair, she felt the softness, and the squishiness, and the residual warmth. Suddenly she could smell blueberries, with just a hint of ginger. She held perfectly still, feeling the filling seep into her dress. By now, she really didn’t even need to check, but she did anyway. She scanned the table. Her pie was gone. Well, not gone, technically…
The men came back and returned the other tables to their original positions. Amy and Betty followed them back. Claire didn’t dare get up; she didn’t want to move a muscle. This was just too much. Everything, literally everything, was ruined in one fell swoop. It was all she could do not to imagine the sticky purple pie filling, all over her seat, dripping down her legs, staining her dress. She must have spent five minutes, sitting frozen in the pie, paralyzed with embarrassment and confusion and aimless anger.
Betty came back. She stood next to the table, looking at her friend with concern. Claire tried to smile reassuringly, but it just made her grimace squirm.
“Hey, Claire, are you, uh, ok?”
Betty came around the table and knelt beside her. She saw a few fat blueberries sitting in a puddle of sweet syrup on the ground, right under the chair.
“Oh lord!”
The thought of Betty making a scene was enough to bring Claire back.
“Shhh! Don’t say anything!”
“What happened?” Betty whispered.
“I’m sitting on my pie… What does it look like?”
“I mean, well…. Oh! She didn’t!”
“What?”
“Well. I don’t want to tell tales… I didn’t actually see anything… But, while we were taking pictures, when those kids ran by, I saw Amy moving some of the pies. I just thought she was trying to put hers in front or something, she can be like that some times. But this, well I never…”
It all made sense. Of course. Sabotage. Claire’s anger suddenly had a target. And the target was still very nearby.
“Betty. I need you to find me a towel, or just grab the blanket from the basket I brought. Help me get to the bathroom. This isn’t over.”
2 PM
Amy Fields was feeling particularly confident. She had this competition in the bag. For some reason Claire, who was undoubtedly her stiffest competition, had disappeared a little while ago. Well, who cares? Never look a gift horse in the mouth. Amy was more than happy to take the crown uncontested.
Because for Amy, winning the Bake-Off was just a means to an end. As proud as she was of her success in the real-estate business, there were always higher heights to conquer. As the result of careful analysis of her client base and the population of Fallfax County, Amy had discovered a growing hole in her business. Families. For whatever reason, local families were just not as inclined to use her company for their housing needs. Short of starting a family of her own, Amy saw only one solution; the O.W.O. The Odenville Women’s Organization, membership by invitation only, was like the housewife mafia of Fallfax County. If anyone wanted to get the inside track on marketing to women with children in the region, they had better be a member of the O.W.O. And it was no coincidence that the last three presidents of the O.W.O. were multi-year winners of the Fallfax County Fair Bake-Off, Pies and Tarts category. Earn a blue ribbon at the Fair, and you’re as good as in.
So, a few years ago, Amy had launched an all out campaign to win the blue ribbon at the Bake-Off. Until now, her efforts had been fruitless, but that was all about to change. Especially with Claire suddenly MIA, Amy was confident she had this contest all sewn up.
Still, there were butterflies in her stomach as the judges began to make their rounds. They would start with the lesser divisions (Cookies and Muffins), moving along to the mid-levels (Cakes and Assorted Pastries), and finally assessing the best of the best, Pies and Tarts.
There were always three judges at the Bake-Off. Mr and Mrs Hyde had been presiding over the competition for over a decade. The Hyde’s owned and ran one of the most successful restaurants in Odenville, as well as a handful of small bakeries around the county. No one held a candle to the pair when it came to evaluating food. Mr Hyde was an enormous man, round and jolly; in almost perfect contrast to his wife, who was thin to the point of looking frail. This year, for the first time, the third judge was Mrs Sands. Marcia Sands was a legend on the local baking circuit. She’d won more blue ribbons at the Bake-Off than anyone else in years. And all while managing to look stunning. Amy adjusted her dress nervously. The fact that Mrs Sands had become a judge this year was the only reason anyone else had a shot at first place.
The anticipation was unbearable. Amy had to distract herself. She watched the Fair happen all around the Bake-Off. While inside the tent the air was full of tension and strained cheer, outside everyone was genuinely having a great time. She watched an elderly couple leaning heavily on canes, stroll past the booths and tents wearing matching hats made of twisted balloons. A gigantic tattooed man with a giggling little girl on his shoulders ordered a soft pretzel from a brightly painted cart. A small boy wearing a blue cap was throwing tennis balls at stacked milk bottles. Even though he could barely see over the edge of the booth, he knocked down every last bottle. While he was receiving his prize a strangely wet brunette approached the boy. As Amy watched, the young woman spoke to the boy then handed him two crisp bills, a single and a twenty. Though she was still curious, Amy glanced back toward the judges, checking their progress.
The judges were now evaluating Betty Gardner-Eames’ lackluster cherry tart. Amy was just four tables down the line. She took a deep breath.
“Amy!”
She turned. Claire was striding toward her purposefully.
“Ah, hey Claire. You vanished. I was worried you got cold feet…”
“Oh I bet you were worried sick! So are you going to play dumb or what?”
“Sweetie, I don’t think I’m following you…”
“Mmhm. So it’s like that then? Naturally. So of course you have no clue how this happened?”
Claire twisted her hips, pointing her posterior at Amy. There was a big purple splotch on the back of her dress, right where she sat. It had been scrubbed, but was still plainly visible.
“Haha! Oh Claire! What’s that!”
“As if you don’t know!”
“No! You didn’t… Hahaha. I know we like to say dessert goes straight to our hips, but Claire, this is taking things too far!”
Amy couldn’t contain her laughter. Maybe it was the tension of the day boiling over, maybe it was finding her rival in such a predicament, either way, Amy couldn’t stop laughing.
Claire flushed deeply, until her face almost matched her new hair-color. In a fit, she picked up Amy’s pie from the table, and mashed it into her chest.
Amy’s laughter crumbled faster than her pie. Chunks of broken crust scattered and dark, gooey filling oozed everywhere. Amy’s hands flew to her chest and she hopped back.
“You witch! Are you insane?”
“I don’t know Amy, am I? At least I had the decency to confront you face to face!”
Amy tossed the pie tin aside, wiping off bits of crust and filling from her pink dress and scooping sweetened fruit from her cleavage. She stared at Claire, completely nonplussed.
“Wait. What?”
Suddenly Claire’s expression changed. The fire in her eyes faded.
“I thought… During the pictures… Betty said…”
“Betty said what exactly?” Amy threw a handful of dark berries on the ground.
They didn’t need to discuss anything more. Even though they spent years as bitter rival, Amy knew she and Claire were similarly driven. In light of this new development, they were now both immediately on the same page. Claire picked up something off a nearby table. Amy grabbed a lattice-top raspberry pie she had brought today; it was her back-up, just in case…
Betty was leaning on her own table, looking simultaneously relieved to have her judging finished, and bored now that all she could do was wait. Amy had a mind to spice up her afternoon. Both women approached Betty with their hands behind their backs.
“Hi Betty, how’d it go with the judges? Think we could talk a minute?”
Betty glanced at Amy languidly. When her eyes settled on the gooey remains of the pie smeared across Amy’s chest and stomach, they widened slightly. The barest hint of a smile flickered at the corners of her mouth. It was evidence enough for the two pissed-off Bake-Off contestants.
Claire and Amy clobbered the wealthy younger woman with the pies they were concealing, one on each side of her head. Apparently Claire had picked up a blackberry-peach pie, based on the sticky fruit that exploded over the left side of Betty’s head. Amy rubbed her own pie in, coating Betty’s right side with raspberry puree and bright red syrup.
Betty shrieked and shook her head, whipping fruit and pastry out of her hair. They were now officially raising a stir; the rest of the crowd backed out into a circle and watched, jaws agape.
Without hesitating, Betty snatched up two tall chocolate cakes from someone’s table. She threw the first at Claire and planted the second on top of Amy’s head.
The first cake bounced right away, just leaving small patches of brown frosting on Claire’s nose and cheeks. But the second, unbeknownst to Betty, was a cream-cake. Everything went dark for Amy as the cake collapsed over her head, coating her hair and face in light brown chocolate cream and crumbles of dark cake.
She could hear laughter, through the layer of frosting around her ears. She swiped at her eyes, clearing them enough to see Betty, her bob plastered flat and sticky on both sides, standing back, surprised at her own handiwork. And Claire, laughing her head off.
Well screw it, Amy thought. She picked up a series of desserts and threw them in rapid succession. Her aim was good. An apricot pie, Betty’s cherry tart, and a seasonally-inappropriate pumpkin pie all nailed Claire in the face and shoulders. When she bent over to wipe the mass of dessert from her face, Amy smashed a key-lime pie over the back of her head.
Satisfied, Amy stepped back, brushing some chocolate icing off her nose. Betty was pulling the sticky headband out of her ruined hair. She locked eyes with Amy and started to say something. She didn’t finish, however, because right then Claire smushed a custard pie square in her face.
7 PM
The battle in the Bake-Off tent had gone on for a long time, or at least, longer than a food-fight at an important social event between three grown women should have lasted… Eventually, around mid-way through, after they had started throwing handfuls of dessert remains on the floor because all the proper women in their Sunday best had run off with their baked goods, the fight had become a game. It was cathartic. The emotional release of years of repression, competition, and pent up frustration with the prim perfection the Bake-Off represented. Or that’s what Betty Gardner-Eames thought anyway.
All in all, she was quite pleased with how the day had gone. When she stuck the pie on Claire’s chair, hours ago, it was a completely spur-of-the-moment decision. She didn’t really have any motives, except a fleeting hope that maybe sewing a little chaos would add some excitement. And oh, Betty reflected lying on her back in a pile of pulverized pastry and crushed cake mixed with mounds of pie filling and frostings, it certainly had.
Betty sat up. Her dress was entirely unrecognizable and she was fairly sure it was currently being held up primarily by congealed syrups. She touched her hair, which was now a crusty, sticky helmet of no particular color or shape. In fact, her entire body was pretty well covered in demolished desserts.
The Bake-Off, and most everywhere else, was nearly deserted, on account of the big event taking place over at the main stage. A few feet away from where she sat, Claire and Amy were struggling to push the results of their melee into a pile using brooms. It wasn’t going very well, but they kept trying anyway. Both of them were also completely coated in sweet treats. Claire’s long mahogany hair came undone in the fray, so she’d tied it up in a sloppy topknot. Amy had pushed back her matted blonde tresses, leaving rigid finger-trails in the gunk on her head.
None of them had spoken since they’d finally stopped hurling handfuls of food at one another. Betty broke the silence, hesitantly.
“Uh, I think I owe you ladies an apology… See, I’ve just gotten sooo tired of the damn Bake-Off, I was about to explode. But that’s no excuse, I shouldn’t have taken it out on you Claire, and I really shouldn’t have made her blame you Amy… It was wretched of me.”
Both women stopped their futile sweeping. Claire shook her head.
“That’s nice of you to admit, but none of this would have happened if I wasn’t so quick to blame Amy. I reacted rather poorly…”
Amy patted her arch rival on the shoulder.
“To be fair, I kind of deserved it. I know how important this whole thing is to you, and I used it to push your buttons…”
Claire shrugged.
“Maybe it’s because we’re all sitting here, covered in mush, but I’m starting to see how the whole Bake-Off is kind of ridiculous. You know, I think I had more fun today than I’ve had at this thing in years…”
All three women were beginning to smile, when a sharp voice split the air.
“Good lord! I hope you’re pleased with yourselves, I really do! I haven’t seen a disaster like this since ’99, and that year we had a tornado!”
Standing at the edge of the tent was none other than Marcia Sands, the original Mrs Perfect.
She was wearing a black dress with red polka-dots, her Bake-Off judge’s badge still pinned to her chest. Mrs Sands had found the secret to halting the flow of time; somehow, she had erased any traces that she’d ever aged past thirty-five. Her waist was still trim, her face wrinkle-less, and her perfect brown curls were free of gray. At the moment, she had her hands on her hips and an acidic tone in her voice.
“You know you managed to completely ruin the Bake-Off? We weren’t even able to award ribbons, because half the entries were lost before they could be judged! Well I’ve found them, all over your faces!
“Claire Danning! You could have won! This could have been your year! I can’t believe you threw it all away over some petty squabble… Ridiculous!
“And Amy Fields! It may not be solely my decision to make, but you’d better believe I will petition hard against your admittance into the O.W.O. We are a proud organization, and all of our members are certainly above such… childish antics!”
Betty spoke up.
“Oh, who cares! It’s not like anyone got hurt.”
Mrs Sands rounded on her.
“How dare you! Who cares? I’ll have you know, the top place finishers at the Bake-Off have always been served for dessert at the Fair’s annual closing banquet! What are we supposed to do now, hmm? The Hydes had to fetch all of the pies they had in storage at their restaurant at the last minute!”
She gestured to a small cart she had been pushing. It was stacked with short blue boxes.
“Coconut cream. That’s all they had! I never thought I’d see the day… It’s an embarrassment! And speaking of embarrassment, Betty, what do you have to say for yourself!”
Betty stood up, carefully. She spread her arms and shrugged at Mrs Sands. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Claire and Amy moving, and wanted to buy them some time.
Mrs Sands, oblivious to anything other than her reprimanding, shook a finger disdainfully at Betty.
“What if your mother saw you in this state, hmm? What if, heaven forbid, your grandmother was here to see this? Your family has been an important part of Fallfax County for a very long time, that you would sink to behavior like this is…. Ugmmph!”
Amy and Claire chose that moment to hit Mrs Sands from behind with four of the coconut cream pies from the cart. They worked cooperatively for the second time, smearing cream across the front, sides, and top of her head all at once.
The long time champion and first time judge of the Fallfax County Fair Bake-Off staggered forward, dripping with gloppy pie. She was speechless, as she spit out a mouthful of crust and ran her hands through her coconut-flavored hair. Wandering blindly, she wiped her mouth and continued her judgmental tirade.
“Ohh! This is unbelievable! Unacceptable! You… children are making a mockery of everything the Bake-Off is supposed to represent! Elegance! Charm! Grace!”
And with that, Mrs Sands stepped on a smashed cupcake. Her high-heeled feet slid out from under her, and she fell over, luckily landing on her back in the substantial pile of bakery wreckage Claire and Amy had swept together. Cream-covered, and lying in the sticky, squishy heap, Mrs Sands muttered a steam of obscenities so long and so horrible, that it would have made Betty’s grandmother faint.
But the three culprits responsible for the obliteration of the Bake-Off didn’t stay to hear the end of it. Instead, they were running off, through the lit-up Fair, completely coated in sweet debris, arms linked, and laughing like school-girls.
