Patty Cake, Patty Cake

Chauchanne sat in her office, the sunset slowly darkening the room, spending a few hours by herself to record her progress. It was difficult work introducing beginners to the profession of baking; long hours supervising, tended to by dozens of loyal slaves, minutes with a hot oven... It was all very stressful, but it took an organized, talented woman like her to keep the bread industry moving. The log book on her desk was full of rows and columns of dates and quantities recording when and how much bread came out of her ovens, but the numbers weren’t looking good. Productivity was down, sales were down, and it took a disciplined tongue like hers to notice quality was slipping as well, all just weeks before Chtibrou’s Fifty-Fourth Grand-Master Baker’s Tournament. Difficult work indeed. It couldn’t end the same way as five years ago, out-done by some old geezer and his son; she wouldn’t let it. She closed the book and sighed disappointedly. I’ve hit a slump, she reasoned, just no way around it. Things are getting worse, but they’re good for now, right? Who am I kidding; the bread’s getting stale. At this rate I’ll be making croutons. I need something new, something fresh… A knock came at the door, interrupting her thoughts. She was never to be disturbed at these hours. It was a welcome distraction, but she need to maintain a professional disposition. She walked across the room and opened the door slightly. “What is it?” she asked, glaring at her uniformed secretary in the room beyond. He shuffled papers nervously and said, “You have a visitor.” One of her uniformed slaves stood about a head shorter than her, unnoticed before, on the other side of the door holding a silver fork and a slice of dark brown cake crowned with a white frosting on a white plate. “-I made you something,-” said a voice from under the face-hiding tuque, “-It’s an old family recipe; I thought you might like it.-” “Cawwot cake,” she said neutrally. She mulled over it for a moment; she wasn’t particularly hungry, but a snack couldn’t hurt. She could make an example of him to inspire the work force, or enjoy his company. He carried himself oddly, uncertain of his abilities, eager to impress, shy, fearful of criticism. “Alright,” she said, opening the door to let him in, “Come in.” She walked back to the chair at her desk and sat down, crossing one leg over the other. The slave stood frozen in the doorway. “I said come in, don’t just stand there,” she said dryly. The slave stiffly walked forwards, set the plate down on her desk, and took a step back. “It looks okay,” she said, looking the slice of cake over, “The cake itself is a healthy brown, your frosting is a rather stunning white, and the cawwot adds just enough contrast to keep it interesting without taking away from the rest of it. Work on spreading your frosting more easily. It’s a little insulting that you’d serve an undecorated cake to the great Chauchanne.” “-Yes, ma’am.-” “It smells fine,” she continued, “It must be fresh.” “-Yes, ma’am.-” “You shouldn’t be able to smell a cawwot cake this easily. Most prefer their cawwot cake served chilled,” she explained. “-Yes, ma’am.-” She delicately grabbed the fork and slid it into the cake. “Hmm. It’s not a process most people even consider, but you can tell the texture of something before it’s in your mouth through your hands; the crust, the soft inside, the warmth, the sticky glaze. You understand?” “-Yes, ma’am.-” “The fork… It glides through just fine. Just a minimal amount of resistance. It subtly challenges you to eat it, but you know it won’t be challenging to do so. Excellent.” “-Yes, ma’am.-” She raised the fork to her mouth and slowly wrapped her lips around it. The slave wringed his hands behind his back nervously. She pulled the fork back out, sans cake, and rested her hand on the table while she chewed meticulously. She stopped, convinced she had experienced its’ taste and texture thoroughly, and swallowed. “Is that molasses?” she inquired. “-Yes, ma’am. Just a little-” “Hmm. Smart. A sticky and resilient sweetener, sticks on your palette longer than most. A good choice for cawwot cake, I don’t know why it hasn’t been done before. You cut the cawwots themselves a little too thin. They’re thin and stringy. Don’t be afraid to make them noticeable; they have a unique, tangy flavor all their own and a slight crunch that really adds to the cake as a whole. And on texture as a whole, the fork held few secrets from me. Just take the time to notice it and you get an exciting premonition of things to come; it’s a bit like knowing the future, I suppose. And your frosting… It was rather smooth and perfectly sweet. I’ve always found cream cheese frosting to end up dry and sugary and distract away from the cake itself rather than add to it. On top of all that, I just found a hint of fruit juices. Remarkable. There had to be something else to it, but I don’t think it molasses. Close the door.” The slave closed the door and walked back to the front of her desk. Chauchanne laid the fork down on the plate and pushed it towards her slave. “Could you finish it for me? I’m not that hungry and I’d hate to see it go to waste,” she implored. The slave hesitantly took a bite, chewed, swallowed, and set the fork back down. “No, no, keep going,” she ordered. The slave took another bite and began chewing. “Slave: What is your number?” she asked. The slave swallowed. “-One hundred and twenty-three, ma’am.-” He took another bite. “How long have you been working here, Slave?” “-About three years, ma’am.-” “And you’re prepared for full commitment to the baking arts?” “-Yes, ma’am.-” “One hundred and twenty-three: What have you been eating under my care?” “-Um, bread, toast, pastries, muffins, crêpes, cakes, pancakes, cupcakes—-” “Besides baked goods.” One hundred and twenty-three swallowed. “-I just got back from an expedition to gather ingredients, so… Quite a bit of fish, citrus fruit, bread, and some other fruits I suppose. Ma’am.-” He took another bite.