Читать книгу: «How To Bake The Perfect Christmas Cake»

To all the bakers of the world, the ones that follow the recipe and the ones who make it up as they go, this one is for you.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

Copyright

Chapter One

“So, what’s the problem…is it the money?”

“No, it’s not the money.” I pick up my Santa bobble head pen my mom shipped to my office. She always sends something festive to my work. I think she realizes if I open the package here then everyone will want to see whatever it is and thus I’ll be forced to display it. In this case a bobble head Santa, he is wearing a cowboy hat and has a lasso. It’s a Countrified Santa.

“Well then, what is it? Come on, Lauren, we’re not that miserable to be around.”

“Megan, it’s not that,” I say as I scribble on the yellow lined notepad at my desk. I don’t want to have this conversation while I’m at work. It’s bad enough sharing a wall with my coworker Leena, but for conversations like these, it’s almost as if her ears are against my phone’s receiver. I prefer using my headphones but Megan called me on my direct line which is connected to my black desk phone, not to my computer.

“Well then what is it?” Megan asks. The tone in her voice is harsh. I get it, I do. I ‒ rather we ‒ always come home for Christmas, stay until January 2^nd, it’s our tradition, our thing. Spending time with our family etc. But this year I don’t want to go home. It’s not because of the money. I have money. I’m maxing out my 401k contribution and I have the little luxuries in life, like highlighted hair every six weeks and Starbucks whenever I want ‒ which is a lot. Maybe I should be cutting back on the frothy foam, especially with cookie central roaming around the office, every cubicle is filled with plates of the latest and greatest decorated cookies or store-bought candies. I can’t escape a nibble here or a mint there. I appreciate the sweetness of Mrs. Claus, but in no way do I want to have the appearance of something round and chubby. I need to figure out a game plan for avoiding those tasty treats. Especially with Leena. It’s almost as if she can sense my lack of self-control and takes pleasure in my sugar overdose downfall. Typical schadenfreude person. It couldn’t be any more obvious. But shiat, what can I do? I have a freaking sweet tooth. I clench my tummy, that’s right, do some ab workouts at the desk. Even if I’m only burning a few calories. I’m reminded of that silly phrase: muscles are made at the gym and abs are made in the kitchen, but for some reason squeezing my stomach feels good and like I’m doing something. Surely I must be burning some calories or even toning my abs.

I mean, I get it…I’m no Jamie Easton, but I’m definitely not Mrs. Claus. Definitely not Mrs. Claus. First of all, I’m single. All alone. Expected to have a blue Christmas without you I hum in my head. My blue Christmas is due to one cause. Jack. Damn. It sucks to be single and unattached. I’m not really on the hunt for a Mr. Claus, but if the younger, more svelte version of a happy jolly soul came knocking at my door (and obviously it would have to be my door, since I can’t imagine a guy coming down my chimney), well, let’s just say I might answer.

Who I wouldn’t answer to is Jack. Jack Walker. Jack Walker, Mr. All-Business-Wooed-Me-With-His-Pecans over Thanksgiving and then, two weeks later, was a no show. A no show. The guy stood me up at the airport. Not the movies, not a fancy restaurant, not the airport. As in, I’ll meet you at baggage claim, I’ll watch all the happy people greet their loved ones swinging them around in circles, handing over bouquets of flowers, joking about the airplane food or lack thereof until finally, finally, I was left alone, watching the luggage carousel circle round and round. An airport employee asked if my luggage didn’t make the trip. I nodded and walked away. That’s it for me and baggage.

No. I do not want to come home this year for Christmas. I do not want to have to deal with the questions about where’s Jack? How are things going with him? Did he come visit you? Because I don’t have the answer to any of those questions. And now, now I don’t want them. Just like him.

My computer screen would normally have a snowy scene, but now it has a tide washing up on shore. I’m pretending it’s actually summer time. The connection program we use is in the upper right-hand corner. I have several calls to take in my queue. Clients are waiting to hear what I have to say. Clients that are not going to stand me up, but are actually holding the line for me.

“Hey, listen, Megan, I really have to get back to work,” I say glancing at the phone cord, I want to twist it, but that will only remind me of him. This is something I don’t want to do, so instead I doodle little Christmas trees with lights on them. Candy canes hanging along the branches and at the top a star. This reminds me of how Jack called my grandmother a shining star, I close the spaces in between the star and it looks kind of like a dreidel. Which is really weird for a dreidel to be on top of a Christmas tree. I drop my pen and sigh. Even in my doodles I can’t escape Christmas.

“Fine, but we’re going to talk later about this,” Megan says. The buzzing of the dial tone rings in my ear.

I put the black plastic receiver down and count to ten in Italian, I like to count in Italian before speaking to my clients. They speak English, as do I, but I feel like counting in Italian really cheers me up and puts my vocal chords where they need to be, a pleasant yet in control of the conversation tone.

My finger hovers over the mouse and I’m about to make touchdown on a good solid click, when an instant message pops up on my screen. It’s my boss. Javier. What could he want? Shiat, I hope Leena didn’t tell him I was on a personal call. I can imagine her hearing my conversation ending and rushing over to his office. He actually has a real office. The rest of us have cubicles. Our walls are tall to make you think you’re in an office, except there is no real privacy. I mean, I prefer it over my other positions where we had half walls and could see each other. Imagine talking to a client on the phone and knowing all of your coworkers can see and hear you. I hate being under a microscope. Well, I guess hate is a bit strong. I don’t like being on display. Here, I’ve got my walls, but there is no sound barrier.

I inspect the message box.

“Lauren, when you get a moment, please come to my office.”

Hmm, a moment. This doesn’t sound urgent, but it does pique my curiosity enough to log out of my call box. I place my headphones down on my desk and comb my fingers through my hair. I didn’t do anything wrong. Javier might need to make sure what my travel dates are, so he knows our lines are covered. He knows I always go home for Christmas and my time off was scheduled months in advance. Months before I met Jack and months before he didn’t show up. I sigh.

I rub my lips together and push in my chair. I’ve got a nice leather one, it’s an upgrade. I got it for being the top resolution consultant. Almost everyone else has a fuzzy uncomfortable seat. I pat the chair and exit my cubicle.

Javier’s office is not too far from my own space. I saunter in my knee-high boots and tweed skirt with my mauve angora sweater. I love winter fashion in Maryland. We have so many opportunities to layer, which isn’t even heard of in Texas where I grew up. The most layering people do is a tank top with a cardigan or a scarf. But here I can layer tights, sweaters, tops, blouses, scarves, coats, gloves, the list goes on for days and even with all those layers I am still cold outside. We have actual winters here, not like in Austin. I have snow boots, because they are needed here, whereas in Texas it is more of a fashion statement and a silly one at that. When it drops to the seventies in Texas, people drag out their winter gear as if there is a real need for it. Seventy degrees! We don’t pull out our winter gear here until we drop below sixty. And the die-hards wait until the temperature hits below fifty degrees.

I tap my knuckles on Javier’s door. It’s pressed wood with a thick layer of laminate over the top of it.

When I get the go-ahead, I open the door to see Javier smiling at me. He is dressed for success, as he often says during meetings, in his dark-navy suit with a Santa tie, it must be a gift from one of his kids. They always get him festive ties for presents. Javier is good dad and wears the flashy ties, which are quite different from his typical low-key striped conservative ones.

“Hey, Lauren, how are you?” He reaches out to shake my hand. It’s a firm, warm grip. His hands are always warm but not clammy which is good.

“Good, how about you, Javier?” I step inside his office and he gets up to shut the door behind me.

Javier is a large man with a full head of jet-black hair. He mentions from time to time about his hair being a true gift from his mother’s side of the family. He sits down at his desk and I slide into one of the maroon chairs in front of it. I tap the arm of the seat. Leather. I breathe in deep. I don’t want to seem nervous in front of him.

“Lauren, I’m going to cut right to the chase.” Javier pushes some stark white papers around on his desk and stares at me.

“Yes?” I say. Internally I’m dying, am I about to get fired? For a two-minute phone call with my sister? That’s ridiculous.

“We’ve been going over the reports and looking at your call times.” Javier stacks the papers on top of each other.

Shiat, I knew it. That damn Leena. Like she doesn’t take personal calls. Arghh.

“Lauren, your call times and balance-management skills are incredible. We are doing a disservice to our company and our clients keeping you in your current position.” Javier’s eyes are scouting my face. He’s reading me, waiting for my reaction.

I can’t believe I am hearing him correctly. I blink. Yup, this is real. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from speaking to soon. Sometimes, waiting to speak is better than blurting things out.

“We want to promote you and give you your own team.” Javier’s mouth forms a large grin.

My eyes widen, dost my ears deceive me? Did I just get the biggest promotion of my life?

“Wow, Javier, that’s really great. Can you give me more specifics?”

Javier laughs. “I knew you would want to talk numbers and that’s why we want to move you up. Here is a packet filled with everything you need to know about this new position, including the numbers. Take it home tonight and read it over. If you decide that you want to take this route with your career, you would begin in January after your Christmas break.”

Javier stands up and offers me the stack of papers from his desk. I take them and shake his hand.

It seems like the right thing to do. I know shaking his hand doesn’t mean I’ve accepted the position, but it is a business meeting and those typically end with a handshake. If I hadn’t already eaten lunch, I would rush out to the nearest diner and request the “business woman’s lunch special” in my best Romy accent.

***

About a year ago I did the wise and responsible thing and invested in some real estate. I bought a three-story townhouse. It’s colonial style, which I love. The bricks are burnt red and the shutters are kettle black. It was built in the sixties and two huge oak trees stand tall in my front yard. I’m pretty happy with my little home. It has all the nice features one could hope for; a walk-in closet, a garden-size tub and a fireplace. My fireplace has never actually been used other than as a spot to light my candles. Ten various-sized white candles currently sit in the hearth, I switch the colors throughout the year. I bought some red and green ones to make the fireplace look more Christmassy, but I haven’t really been in the mood to decorate. My box of Christmas décor is still sitting in my attic.

I am sad about the idea of not going home for Christmas, but I don’t want to hear about Jack or, worse, run into him. After I got home from the airport, alone, I sat on my gray suede couch for a good long period. I twirled the tassels on my lavender chenille pillows until I finally checked my phone. There was one voicemail. Not five, no, just one. The message didn’t really explain why I had made a wasted trip to the airport or why Jack had not made the flight. The message simply said:

“Hi, Lauren, this is Jack. I’m sorry but I can’t make the trip. I’ll talk to you soon.”

That’s it. Who does that? Who plans a trip to see someone you’ve been texting, calling, emailing, Facetiming with for a couple of weeks straight and then drops off the face of the planet? Well, I’m sure he didn’t drop off the face of the planet. But I hadn’t heard from him since. I didn’t try and call him because I was pissed and hurt. I was hurt even more when hours went by and then days of silence. No texts, no calls, no email, no flowers at my desk. To say I’m completely and utterly confused as to why I hadn’t and still haven’t heard from Jack would be an understatement.

Tonight will be different though, I’m going to go out with friend Brianna. Brianna has recently broken up with her boyfriend of six months. Of course, her relationship has had its ups and downs, but we had both agreed about tonight’s plans. We were going to focus on being Single Ladies. Uh oh uh and all that. Though my relationship with Jack was short-lived, Brianna is in a different predicament. Their relationship had been long enough to have a ring put on it. Tonight, we are going to be strutting to a different ballad, we are going to be dancing queens and paint the town red. Well, not really the town, more like a fun dinner and maybe a movie. We hadn’t really set anything in stone because we are living freely. Young, wild and free, we made no concrete plans nor are in any committed relationships.

I sashay past my queen-size bed. I could have bought a king-size bed because my room is big enough for it. But I am only one person and a female, queen-sized seemed to make sense. I alternate my comforters with the seasons. I like to keep my house cooler than most people. There are three layers of covers on my bed. The top layer is a red comforter with a black fleur-de-lis print down the middle, then a red thick blanket, and then finally my gray sheets. They are only one shade of gray, however. My house went through a major renovation before I purchased it. The master room closet has French doors, which make me happy every time I stand in front of them. I grab onto the silver knob turn it to the right and swing it open. No matter how many times I have done this, it still reminds me of stepping into a secret wardrobe. This is by far the largest closet I’ve ever owned and sometimes I wonder if I could ever get lost in it. Ha!

I traipse into my closet. I have four rows of clothes to choose from and one long spot in the back for my dresses and ball gowns. Ha, like I have ball gowns!

I scan my clothes, trying to decide which daring assemble fits my mood. Something to cheer me up and make me feel fantastic. Black leather. Yes, black leather is the perfect material to rockify my evening. I grab my black leather skirt and match it with a navy capped sweater with a bit of lace at the lining. Smoky eyes tonight for sure. The top slides over my skin, though lace is pretty, I’m glad there is a satin lining underneath it so I don’t have to deal with the scratchiness. I slip into the skirt and Boom! This outfit is dangerous. My jet-black pumps with silver nuts bolted to the outside of the toe complete my look. I stare at myself in the mirror that is attached to the back of one of my closet doors. This was an upgrade I installed myself. I’m pretty DIY. It only took me measuring the location for the screw holes four times before I got it right. Look out HGTV, I’m on a DIY mission. I laugh at the idea of my own home improvement show.

I pick up my phone from the bed and press the home button. I have zero messages. Nothing. I push the button to darken my screen and my phone vibrates. It’s a text message.

“Lor Lor, I’m super-sorry but Owen called and he wants to meet me for drinks. I’ll be a little late, but go to Ravens and I promise I’ll meet you there. Xs Bri.”

My chest tightens and I exhale. I cock my head to the side and text Brianna back.

“OK, see u there.”

Now, whether or not I will actually see Brianna there is another thing. I’ve already rated this outfit as dangerous and obviously at the bare minimum I need to do a flyby. I’m definitely not going to sit at home on Friday night in leather and lace and stare at my candle-lit fire. I can hear Bridget Jones’ drunken anthem of “All By Myself” playing. I close my eyes. Not a pretty sight. No way am I turning into pajama girl tonight. No, I can handle going out alone.

I strut into my living room and switch on my silver crystal globe light that sits on my mahogany end table in my living room. I always leave one light on when I exit. The idea of coming home to a dark house scares me. I stride to the door and flick off the overhead lights and pull the door shut. My key slides easily into the hole and I turn it right. Righty tighty makes for a secure house. I tiptoe down the hickory stairs carefully, slow is key in these heels. I safely make it to my car and climb in. Immediately, I sync my phone to the radio. I need something blaring to listen to. ‘Sabotage’ by the Beastie Boys, oh yes…as the wwwka wwwka wwwka comes through the speakers, I back my car out of the garage. To the left, a guy is strolling up the sidewalk. A tall guy. A honk distracts me. In my rear-view window is a lady in a car ‒Shelly Washington, scratch that, the woman, because she doesn’t exactly fit the term of “lady” as evidenced right now. Her hand is glued to her horn and the other is giving me the finger, the middle finger. I shake my head. Nice, Lauren, go with nice. I wave at her and give her the thumbs-up. Like I’m saying, “Hey cool, thanks,” but really my thumbs-up means, “Why are you such a beotch?”

I ease up on the brake and continue to pull out of my garage, then I put the car in gear and drive out of our shared parking lot. Not everyone has a garage in our community. I can still hear Shelly’s horn as I pull out on to the main road which is next to our neighborhood. Neighborhood, yes what a nice neighborhood, with such sweet and patient people. Well, some of them are nice like Mrs. Mullins who always offers to water my plants when I’m gone, but I really think she wants to rummage through my things. I’ve seen her more than once going through the trash. Not the type of dumpster diving for big items. No, actual digging through the bags of trash. Trash which has used coffee filters and banana peels. It’s not like she is looking for anything of monetary value, because sitting right next to the bags she was digging through, was a good looking dresser. A piece of furniture which I had my eye on. I was waiting for her to leave the scene. I could have grabbed it. But I didn’t want to disrupt her pillaging of the trash bags. I’m not sure if she would have minded if I interrupted her dumpster diving, but I wanted to show respect for whatever she was doing. I’m not sure if it was for a living or what.

Of course Bob Dickenson didn’t wait or care about Mrs. Mullins and walked right out to the pile and picked up the dresser and carried it into his house. It would have made an additional storage piece for me. It was perfect for a DIY project. The type of project I could have pinned on Pinterest. And all of my plans for the dresser disappeared as Bob closed his door. It’s not like any of us can’t afford to buy brand-new furniture, but there is a difference between brand-new furniture and solid wood furniture. Besides, I think it’s safe to say we are all part of the big DIY phase. I’ve seen Bob Dickenson come home with truckloads of furniture. I bet he sells his finished projects on Craigslist. He’s definitely a furniture flipper. I wouldn’t be surprised if he trolls the streets on garbage day grabbing up all types of things and then sells them. He’s always seemed to be one of those wheelin’ and dealin’ types.

Brrr, it is cold. I click the top of the circle with what looks more like a nine iron than a seat up a few notches. Come on, baby, bring on the heat! In the rear-view mirror there’s a guy who looks like Jack in the white car behind me. I shake my head. Obviously it’s not him. How could it be him? I shake my head at the nonsensicalness. My hair falls over my shoulder. I remember being in the car with him on the day we met. My hair was a wreck. I sigh. I need to get him out of my head. The light above turns green and I glance in the mirror again but the guy is out of my line of sight. Honk! Honk! Good grief, what’s with the horns today? I get it I’m on the east coast but this isn’t NYC where horns of various levels are blown all hours of the day and night. Further, where is everyone’s holiday spirit? People are being a bit on the rude side. I guess this comes along with the cynicism about Santa not being real.

I refuse to give up this idea. It’s possible. He could be real or at least the idea of him. I think people can be Santa and make special things happen for others. This year I’m not sure what I would ask for if given the opportunity. Of course world peace and to lose a few more pounds. But is there anything tangible I want or need? Something I can’t or haven’t bought for myself? The ceiling provides no answers. My lips purse, forming wrinkles. Wrinkles on my under-thirty-year-old self.

The route to Ravens is somewhat straightforward, not a bunch of twists and turns from my place. Surprisingly I find a parking spot pretty close to the entrance. A win for me. Especially since it’s a Friday night and I am alone. Being close to the entrance of a place at night is a big deal. I put my gear in park and turn the key to the right. I blow out through my mouth. I can do this. I rub my lips together and pull on the car handle to open myself into the dark parking lot. There are a few street lights, but not enough to provide a lit path to the front of Ravens. I click the button on my keys and the beep, beep noise goes off. Yes, my car is locked. I stride with confidence to the doors and take a deep breath. You can do this, Lauren. You’ve gone out alone before and, besides, Brianna did say she would arrive at some point. The freezing temperature forces me not to hesitate.

The metal is cold against my fingers as I push the door open. The heat from the bar blows across my face as I step in. This is my kind of place. It’s swanky, dim lights and low music. There are lots of ivory leather couches and jet-black suede chairs fitted with chrome legs all around the bar, giving the opportunity for good talks, and in the back of the place is a small dance floor. Maybe later I will do a few twirls around it. I smile, thinking about the last time Brianna and I danced together. We like to do our own version of Romy & Michelle’s “Kid ’N’ Play” number. It’s choreographed well and we always get a few cheers from the crowd and several rounds of drinks offered.

Since I’m alone, I head for the bar. Obviously, I wouldn’t sit on a big couch by myself. The last time I sat at a big couch alone in a bar I could practically hear the pitiful chatter about me. As if I had been stood up by my date. If they only knew the reality. The only date to ever stand me up was at the airport. I shake my head and purse my lips. Don’t go there, Lauren. I’m about to grab a seat when my arm is being pulled. I turn around. I’m ready to go full ninja on whoever is trying to accost me in a public place.

“Lauren! I’m so glad you came.” Brianna grabs me in a tight squeeze. I sigh and hug her back and then drop my hands down to her arms. She is dressed like a fashion model as usual, with her bright-emerald-green cocktail dress with the perfect opal bauble necklace, accompanied by her new Brian Atwood color-blocked gladiator heels. I wish I had her shoe budget. But then again, she is a real estate agent in a hot market. Maybe with my new promotion I will be on the same level of Brianna with her shopping sprees. Ha, probably not but one can dream.

“Where’s Owen?”

“He’s over there,” Brianna points to the far corner of the room. Her shiny raven hair swings as she turns her head. Owen is wearing his office attire, he’s a stock broker for a big firm. He is a few years older than us, but no real signs of gray yet. Although, if I were in that line of business with the type of stress he encounters, I think I would look like Meryl Streep in 101 Dalmatians. I’m sure when I go gray it will look similar with those chunky stripes. Except I will color it. My hair stylist had the gall to tell me the other day that he found a gray. I almost cried in the chair. He must have sensed my concern and changed his story to it being a blond hair and then dropped the evidence before I could inspect it myself.