Today you’re in a for a bit of a treat. After last week’s A Few of My Favorite Things post on Baking Bread, I was put in remembrance of a short story I had written that revolved around baking. And while the main characters are indeed in the kitchen, contending with all sorts of culinary disasters, they’re not baking bread. No. They are baking something far more delectable than bread. They are baking desserts. Yummy desserts. Oddly enough, this short story titled Half-Baked takes place during those dog days of summer in the South. And given that Fall has been stubbornly refusing to show its colors here in that part of the country, the timing for this story seems all the more appropriate. So, without any further gilding the lily or frosting the cake or what-have-you, I give you: Half-Baked.

    Of all the days for the air conditioning to break, it had to be today. Not that on any other day it would be any less exasperating, but today was Grandma Hildegarde’s 102nd birthday and Agatha had gone to quite extraordinary lengths to plan and execute a spectacular party.
    Cascading configurations of countless balloons. Massive peony, poppy, and gladiola floral arrangements. Boutique on-site gourmet catering. A live band. A portable dance floor. A renowned disc jockey from California for band breaks. A master of ceremonies. Four outdoor tents- two for the caterers, one for dancing, and one for dining- thankfully all with portable cooling units. At least Granny Hildegarde would be comfortable.
    But she wanted to do so much more than just comfortable for Grandma Hildegarde. She wanted to recreate all the childhood birthday parties Gran had orchestrated for her and her best friend, Lincoln. Her family had never been large on parties, especially girly parties. And since she was the only girl of her grandmother’s five children and fifteen grandchildren, Grandma Hildegarde celebrated her. And Lincoln because Lincoln’s family was too poor and Agatha had insisted on including him in every thing from her birthday to her complicated, harebrained schemes. He was always there. Somethings never changed, even after twenty-five years.
    She’d flown her parents in. Her two brothers. Her four uncles. Her twelve cousins. All their wives- eighteen there. And their children- only eight.  Really, after all the tickets were purchased, she should have just chartered a private jet; it might have been cheaper in the end. But, the whole family was gathered, every last ungrateful, unhelpful one of them, and, as she watched cousin Sven’s cocker spaniel run pell-mell across the kitchen garden, their little dog, too. 
    Her home was jammed- every nook and cranny of it. And, with the AC on the fritz, it was hot. Like hell. The last circle. Yet, that was not what upset Agatha the most. No. She could tolerate heat. She could tolerate being jammed tighter than a tin of sardines. But her greatest plan- her biggest surprise- her pièce de résistance was melting. Oh, what a world! What a world!
    On the kitchen counter, sat her Baked Alaska, or at least her attempted Baked Alaska, oozing and dripping and weeping. It was too entirely like her own emotional state to even be considered ironic on any level.
    Why had she waited to make it? Because she had no idea what an elaborate fiasco such a simple sounding dessert could be. But elaborate it was, and, staring at the carnage before her, fiasco it was too.
    The sponge cake had been relatively easy. The recipe was simple enough. Agatha got out her 12” spring form pan and went to it. When the timer dinged, the cake was a lovely golden color with just the right amount of spring. Really, from the few crumbs she had tried, it was a coup d’etat of sponges. 

    The meringue was a bit more tricky, but, then again, meringues always were. Agatha had been taught- by Granny Hildegarde, no less- that the only way to whip egg whites was by hand. Until today, she never quibbled with the notion. But, when the outdoor temperature was a sultry 92ºF with high humidity, to say nothing of the temperature in the kitchen after having the oven on- Agatha surmised the degree to be somewhere near 1,000 and she felt that was a conservative estimate- ANYWAY- when one had to contend with hell-worthy weather, whipping egg whites by hand seemed excessive. So, out came the hand mixer, and within a matter of power tool din filled minutes, she had firm peaks. 
    And that’s when she remembered. She hadn’t made the ice cream. There was no ice cream.
    Sven’s spaniel barked reproach outside the window as Agatha stood stock still and felt her world collapse around her like a finicky Angel Food cake. It was ruined. All ruined.
    And her firm peaks were drooping.
    Marshaling her tattered resolve, she dug out her ice cream maker and threw in the ingredients- sugar, heavy cream, vanilla, milk, cacao powder, coffee liquor. BANG! She turned on the machine and listened to it churn to life.
    The party didn’t start for another three hours. She could make this work. That’s what she did- she was an executive producer, she made everything work- while looking collected and composed and chic. In Jimmy Choo’s and Louboutin’s to boot. Her male dominated family could kiss her perfectly pedicured toes. 
    But it was hotter than Hades, her ice cream was just cream, and her egg white peaks were now valleys. How was she supposed to stay cool? Especially with Uncle Aage and cousin Jørgen just waiting to revel in her failure. Accepting her hard wrought climb to the top of her industry with its copious financial compensations and bonuses was not something the men in her family handled well. 
    And their pettiness knew no bounds. Whenever she announced a promotion or pay raise, they were the first to highlight her left hand’s naked third finger. Find the one area she had yet to excel in and rub salt in that wound! Oh, you bought a 3,000 square foot house, I hope 1,000 feet of that is closets. Oh, your an executive producer at the Food Network, what, you didn’t make the cut for on-air talent? How like Jørgen! And somehow his tone, and his father’s seconding of it, always soured everything.

    Was this a bad idea? Was the Baked Alaska failure a sign? Should she cease and desist? Grab Granny and high tail it to the airport for a flight to the Amalfi Coast or the Greek Isles? No. Even that wouldn’t erase her quest to show herself worthy in her family’s eyes. That traveled with her, wherever she went. Wasn’t that the main reason she’d left Kansas in the first place? Looking for the Somewhere over that proverbial rainbow? Wasn't that were troubles purportedly melted like little lemon shaped candies? 
    “Agatha, are you all right?”
    She didn’t even possess the moxie to keep her composure. She just looked at Lincoln- her steadfast best friend- shook her head then burst into tears. 
    Before she could utter a blubbery word, he was across her kitchen, engulfing her in a huge hug.
    “Aw, Aggie, it’s not that bad.”
    “Yes, it is,” she sobbed into his shirt. He smelled like lemons and wood, comforting and homey. There was no place like home. “My Baked Alaska is ruined. It was going to be the highlight of the party.”
    “Aggie, you always exaggerate.”
    She pulled back and scowled at him. She hated that name. And she hated being told she exaggerated. How did Lincoln always know how to stick it to her in just the right way to martial her from self-pity to action without making her feel belittled? 
    “I do not exaggerate.”
    “You do. Stop being a baby and tell me how I can help.” He grinned, and, for the first time, Agatha was struck by how handsome he was. Women had always seemed to find him handsome when all she usually saw was awkward nerdiness, but somehow in her blazing kitchen, in her overwrought state, he was- quite simply- delectable. 
    “Earth to Aggie.” Lincoln waved his hand in front of her face. She sneered at him and stepped away, hoping distance might banish the half-baked images flashing through her heat oppressed brain. 
    “You know I hate being called Aggie,” she remarked, jostling the ice cream maker as if the slight agitation could make it mix faster. “Especially by someone who smells like furniture polish.”
    Lincoln’s bearded jaw tightened. He endeavored not to smell like citron and timber, but he was a carpenter, one who specialized in custom furniture. The scent of his trade percolated out of his pores. Agatha liked it, but countless girlfriends had despised it; one had even ended their relationship because she couldn’t stomach his Dammaric smell. 

    To Agatha, it was familiar. It was Lincoln. Geeky, goofy, irritating, comfortable Lincoln. But now the smell invoked something different. All strength and muscles and manly man stuff. Superlatives failed. 
    Looking at him now- white t-shirt, blue jeans, russet hair combed, beard groomed, blue eyes smiling, all titillating and tempting and, oh my, she didn’t think she was in Kansas anymore. Well, she wasn’t. She’d moved to Knoxville years ago. And Lincoln, his German Shepard, Sequoia, and his beloved Dodge Ram had subsequently followed. Towing a trailer full of Grandma Hildegarde’s belongings with Granny Hildegarde riding shotgun. To make sure she wasn’t alone, Granny’d said. To make sure Granny didn’t end up in Nova Scotia, Lincoln’d quipped, to which Granny had swatted him good. Regardless of their reasons, they both knew she hated feeling alone. Hadn’t she felt that way most of her youth? Odd man out, or in her case, odd woman.
    “Agatha, what the hell is wrong with you? You keep staring at me.” Lincoln crossed his arms. His toned arms—Agatha stopped herself.
    “I’m just…I don’t know.” She felt more of her normal, calm self return when Lincoln pulled out a kitchen stool, sat, and tacitly invited her to do the same by pushing a stool in her direction with his foot; it was a thoroughly Lincoln thing to do. Not sexy. Just Lincoln. Although, somehow that line was getting blurred in her mind’s eye. She sat. “Granny always talked about the Baked Alaska from Delmonico’s in New York City. She went there on shore leave in September of ’44 and spent a wad on it, but told me it was worth every penny. So, I got ahold of the original recipe- it pays to work for the Food Network, you know- and I was going to recreate the memory for her. And I forgot to make the ice cream. So, I’ve got it in the— oh, no!”
    “What?”
    “I made coffee ice cream! What was I thinking?”
    “Coffee ice cream is your signature. It’s delicious,” Lincoln said, his tone trying for soothing, but just frazzling her further with its seductive cadence. But the seductive didn’t eclipse how irritating she found his remark. And thoroughly unhelpful. 
    “It’s supposed to be Neapolitan,” she snapped. “Baked Alaska demands Neapolitan!”
    Her voice cracked. She almost cried. In fact, a sob escaped her.
    “Agatha, I need you to calm down. I don’t even know what Baked Alaska is.”
    Agatha took several deep breaths. Then, when she wasn’t a sniveling mess with mascara trailing down her face, she said, “It’s a sort of fancy ice cream cake. Sponge cake on the bottom, a dome of Neapolitan ice cream on that, topped with piped meringue that you caramelize with a blow torch.”
    Lincoln’s face went from troubled consternation to grinning bewilderment. 
    “Aggie, the only words I got were ice cream cake and blow torch. Now, as I understand it, the ice cream is the part you’re having a problem with, right? Not that I don’t understand that; I imagine blow torching ice cream would amount to all sorts of problems.”
    Agatha rolled her eyes. Really rolled them. Like 360º. Lincoln chuckled.   
    “But what would I know? I’m just a carpenter. Notching an egg-and-dart is as culinary as I get.”
    “I’ve got the sponge made. I can make more meringue. But, the ice cream is a major problem. I haven’t got any. I didn’t even buy some for my back-up plan. How could I forget my back-up plan?” She buried her head in her hands. “I can’t believe I forgot to make the ice cream! I should have done it yesterday.”
    “When?” Lincoln asked, sounding way too condescendingly logical. “In between one of your thousand trips to the airport? After hosting the entire family dinner at Marta’s? Setting up a zillion make-shift beds in every room of your house? You were either driving, and we both know what a harrowing experience that can, or cooking or cleaning. I told you you were biting off too much to chew. My God, you practically need air traffic control to monitor all the balls you have in the air.” He laughed at his own wit; Agatha was still nursing annoyance over his I told you so, not to mention that little jab at her driving skills. “Cut yourself some slack, Ags.”

    She nodded her head, feeling her frustration unwind a bit when the left side of his mouth curled in a geeky grin. 
    “You’re right. You’re right.” She took a fortifying breath that cleared her negative air. Positivity smelled like citrus and woodworking. “It’s not like I’m making Prinssesstårta.”
    “Princess what?” Lincoln asked, both eyebrows raised to his hairline in bafflement.
    “Forget it. Let’s go to the market for ice cream. It may not be completely homemade, but it’ll taste delicious, and I think that’s what Gran would want.”
    “Precisely,” Lincoln agreed, shifting his shoulders back as though he had solved the problem of world peace even though he’d done little to nothing. Typical man! Then the right corner of his mouth lifted in puckish glee. “But there’s one problem with your plan, Aggie.”
    “What?” 
    Lincoln grinned broadly. It was almost patronizing. In fact, there was no almost about it. 
    “You’re parked in.”
    And in an instant her nebulous thoughts sharpened and any sexiness he had seemingly possessed evaporated, zapped to death by his one-upmanship. Damn him. He enjoyed stonewalling her. As if she didn’t get enough of that from every single male in her extended family already. She didn’t need him teasing her either, regardless if it was good natured or not. 
    Pilfering the keys to his beloved pick-up from his jean pocket, triumphing in the fact that his defined thigh muscle quickened nary a flutter of arousal in her, she headed for the front door. Glancing over her shoulder at his fearful expression- he so hated anyone, especially her, driving his deified Dodge- she quipped, dangling the key fob like a hostage, “I warned you, Lincoln Log. Don’t call me Aggie.”    

So, what’d you think? I’d love to hear your opinion. Please leave a comment below.