the café’s history – it symbolized everything that was real and good about the place.
I took a deep breath and read through the instructions once again. I wouldn’t be defeated by a scone recipe. I would bake the perfect batch if it was the last thing I did.
That’s my girl , said Jo in my head.
On Saturday morning I woke at six, with the sun streaming in through the window. Right. Big day today. The café’s busiest day of the week. Up and at ’em!
I shut my eyes again, exhausted. I’d been up for hours the night before in my quest to make the best scones in Cornwall. Or even some that were vaguely edible.
The first lot hadn’t risen at all, for some reason – they just looked like pale, doughy blinis. Yuck. Straight in the bin with them; start again. The second lot of scones had risen, gratifyingly, but most of them had burned (less gratifying). I managed to salvage three that looked okay, but I wasn’t sure that would be enough. What if we got a rush on cream teas? What if the first customer who tried one said, ‘My God, these are amazing, I need to buy up your entire scone collection?’ My old lady might not get to taste the fruits of my labours. I couldn’t let her down.
The third batch were perfect. No, really, they were. Okay, so they were slightly wonky, but they rose at least, and were a lovely golden-brown. They were so yummy-looking, in fact, I almost sat down with a pot of raspberry jam and some clotted cream and started tucking in myself. The old lady would be pleased. It would make her holiday. That was if she even turned up, of course. She’d better bloody turn up after all this, I thought with a sudden fierceness. If she didn’t, I’d be searching through the village for her with a megaphone.
Giddy with my success, I decided to make a carrot-and-walnut cake next. Jo had always served up carrot cake in the café, she had been famed throughout the village for it. She’d made a three-tier version with lovely fluffy cream-cheese frosting, which had taken pride of place on the counter. I had to get it back on the menu, I told myself. It was what she would have wanted. It was what the customers wanted too, surely.
It was only when I’d put the cake tins into the oven (finally! I never wanted to grate a sodding carrot again, my fingers were in shreds) that my thoughts turned to the icing. That was the moment I realized we didn’t have any cream cheese. Not even a smidgen. Damn – could I get away with ordinary icing? No. Would anyone around here be open and selling cream cheese at eleven o’clock at night? No.
I felt like letting out a great howl of frustration. No doubt Carl would snigger at my un-iced cake in the morning. Word would get back to Betty Doom and she’d look scornful at this further proof that I wasn’t cut out to be here. She wouldn’t serve me any cream cheese, would she? She’d probably spit at me if I tried to ask for it. Well, I’d just have to get up at the crack of dawn the next day and go out of the village on a cream-cheese-buying mission.
That had been the plan, but now it was the next day, and the thought of cream cheese made me feel distinctly queasy. But I heaved myself out of bed nonetheless and stood under the shower until I felt slightly more alive. Come on, Evie. Jump to it. A whole day with Carl-the-Jerk to look forward to. Bring it on . . .
By nine o’clock I was ready. The carrot cake had been iced (icing was great – it covered up all the dimples and scorched bits of sponge, I realized), the kitchen and dining areas were spotless, I’d had a practice run with the coffee machine and reckoned I could get by on a wing and a prayer, and I’d replenished all the stock we held behind the counter. Oh, and I’d also chalked up a sign on the blackboard saying: TODAY’S SPECIAL: CORNISH CREAM TEA – £2.95. If that didn’t get the punters racing in, I didn’t know what would.
There, Jo. That all right for you?
Humming to myself, I unlocked
I took a deep breath and read through the instructions once again. I wouldn’t be defeated by a scone recipe. I would bake the perfect batch if it was the last thing I did.
That’s my girl , said Jo in my head.
On Saturday morning I woke at six, with the sun streaming in through the window. Right. Big day today. The café’s busiest day of the week. Up and at ’em!
I shut my eyes again, exhausted. I’d been up for hours the night before in my quest to make the best scones in Cornwall. Or even some that were vaguely edible.
The first lot hadn’t risen at all, for some reason – they just looked like pale, doughy blinis. Yuck. Straight in the bin with them; start again. The second lot of scones had risen, gratifyingly, but most of them had burned (less gratifying). I managed to salvage three that looked okay, but I wasn’t sure that would be enough. What if we got a rush on cream teas? What if the first customer who tried one said, ‘My God, these are amazing, I need to buy up your entire scone collection?’ My old lady might not get to taste the fruits of my labours. I couldn’t let her down.
The third batch were perfect. No, really, they were. Okay, so they were slightly wonky, but they rose at least, and were a lovely golden-brown. They were so yummy-looking, in fact, I almost sat down with a pot of raspberry jam and some clotted cream and started tucking in myself. The old lady would be pleased. It would make her holiday. That was if she even turned up, of course. She’d better bloody turn up after all this, I thought with a sudden fierceness. If she didn’t, I’d be searching through the village for her with a megaphone.
Giddy with my success, I decided to make a carrot-and-walnut cake next. Jo had always served up carrot cake in the café, she had been famed throughout the village for it. She’d made a three-tier version with lovely fluffy cream-cheese frosting, which had taken pride of place on the counter. I had to get it back on the menu, I told myself. It was what she would have wanted. It was what the customers wanted too, surely.
It was only when I’d put the cake tins into the oven (finally! I never wanted to grate a sodding carrot again, my fingers were in shreds) that my thoughts turned to the icing. That was the moment I realized we didn’t have any cream cheese. Not even a smidgen. Damn – could I get away with ordinary icing? No. Would anyone around here be open and selling cream cheese at eleven o’clock at night? No.
I felt like letting out a great howl of frustration. No doubt Carl would snigger at my un-iced cake in the morning. Word would get back to Betty Doom and she’d look scornful at this further proof that I wasn’t cut out to be here. She wouldn’t serve me any cream cheese, would she? She’d probably spit at me if I tried to ask for it. Well, I’d just have to get up at the crack of dawn the next day and go out of the village on a cream-cheese-buying mission.
That had been the plan, but now it was the next day, and the thought of cream cheese made me feel distinctly queasy. But I heaved myself out of bed nonetheless and stood under the shower until I felt slightly more alive. Come on, Evie. Jump to it. A whole day with Carl-the-Jerk to look forward to. Bring it on . . .
By nine o’clock I was ready. The carrot cake had been iced (icing was great – it covered up all the dimples and scorched bits of sponge, I realized), the kitchen and dining areas were spotless, I’d had a practice run with the coffee machine and reckoned I could get by on a wing and a prayer, and I’d replenished all the stock we held behind the counter. Oh, and I’d also chalked up a sign on the blackboard saying: TODAY’S SPECIAL: CORNISH CREAM TEA – £2.95. If that didn’t get the punters racing in, I didn’t know what would.
There, Jo. That all right for you?
Humming to myself, I unlocked
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