Christmas At The Café. Rebecca Raisin
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freshly baked hot-cross buns. Within minutes we have customers three deep as the smell travels out to the street.
“I knew that was a good idea!” CeeCee says, pointing to the baskets. “It’s like bees to a honeypot.” And I have to agree. The café is more appealing with all the touches we’ve added recently. Damon built a bookshelf on the wall closest to the fireplace. We filled it with cookbooks, and paperbacks, and hunted out gingerbread coloring-in books for kids.
CeeCee found the wicker baskets at a church fête, and we used all our knowledge of DIY to mount them on the wall. We must have looked a sight that day, two women with nails hanging out of our mouths, drills in hand, as we tried to attach them to the wall. So they hang a little crookedly, but with the amount of nails we used they certainly won’t fall down. Over the Christmas break we painted the walls a dark chocolate color and hung gingerbread-man bunting and fairy lights along the edge of the cornice. It’s chintzy and sweet, and I’m proud of what we’ve accomplished.
The customers trickle away once the hot-cross buns are sold so we stop to catch our breath and plan the rest of the day. I make a quick call to Mr Jefferson, who tells me to fax over the letter from Joel’s lawyer and that he’ll call me as soon as he’s done some investigating into it.
Joining CeeCee on the old sofa by the bookshelves, I take a minute to watch the world go by outside the Gingerbread Café. I could easily grab a book off the shelf and while the day away reading, and gawping out of the window after each chapter.
“I faxed the documents to Mr Jefferson,” I say idly, noticing Damon’s shop is filled with customers. He sells a range of small goods, and does cooking classes once a week, which all manner of local women get themselves glammed up for. Seems once Damon moved to town girls from eighteen to eighty suddenly forgot how to cook.
I watch him wander around the shop, speaking to customers, and get the same tingly feeling I always do when I lay eyes on him. Even when he wears those ridiculous checker shirts he loves so much. They are growing on me, I guess, especially when he leaves one too many buttons open, exposing his chest. I blink the sleepy desire away, and try and look at though I’m not lost in some kind of fantasy world.
CeeCee sighs loudly. “I feel better knowing that he’s gonna help. He’ll see you right. Guess there’s no chance Joel will just up and disappear, is there?”
“You never can tell,” I say, wishing it were true.
CeeCee uncrosses her arms. “If I sit here any longer I’ll fall asleep. Let’s bake something new.”
I stretch, yawning. “Like what?”
“Let’s make some dark chocolate crème brulées. Then that’s one less thing to do for the festival.”
“That’s if we don’t eat them all,” I say, following her back to the kitchen. I can almost taste the rich creamy dessert with its caramelized sugar topping, just by picturing it.
***
With the crème brulées made, and only two or three missing, as temptation got the better of us, we spend the rest of the morning serving customers and planning our range. Trying to organize what can be made ahead, and what needs to be done as late as possible.
CeeCee’s busy concocting a huge slab of macadamia and white chocolate fudge — I can’t even look at it after the amount we’ve eaten today.
A lanky man strolls through the doors, looking almost as if he’s lost something. He takes in the walls, the ceiling, as if he’s a repairman.
“Can I help you?” I ask. He’s not from around here — that much I know.
He strides to the counter. “Name’s Dennis. I heard this place was for sale. Joel told me to come and meet with you — he was a bit sketchy on the details…”
Anger clouds my mind, and I can’t help but glare at the damn fool in front of me, whether he’s innocent or not. What in the hell kind of game is Joel playing sending someone out like some kind of tire-kicker to look over the place?
“This place most certainly is not for sale!” I yell, indignant.
His eyes widen. “But Joel said…”
CeeCee storms over. “You go back and tell that nasty piece of work this kinda carry-on ain’t gonna wash with us! Go on, get.” She shoos him away. He takes one look at her and spins on his heel.
She turns to me. “This ain’t gonna stop, Lil, till he gets his way.”
“I’ll call Mr Jefferson back. But I’m not going to let him bully me into paying, Cee. I’m just not.”
We’re distracted as Charlie runs through the door out of breath. “Daddy said you were making Easter eggs today!” I glance at CeeCee, who in a tacit wave of her hand knows instinctively not to discuss what just happened in front of Charlie. We lock eyes for a moment longer; I can tell CeeCee’s still reeling from Joel’s latest attempt to intimidate me. I mouth the words, “It’s fine.”
CeeCee purses her lips, and pulls the little girl into her arms. “Wanna help us make some eggs?”
Her cornflower-blue eyes widen in excitement. “Yes please! Daddy bought me an apron and everything.” She opens up her pink backpack and pulls out a brown apron.
“Would you look at that?” Cee says. “It’s got gingerbread men all over it. Your daddy sure knows how to buy gifts all right.” We giggle, thinking of the shrilling turkey and the manic bunny. CeeCee helps Charlie fix the strings of the apron, and sets her up on a stool.
“So, Lil’s gonna temper the chocolate,” CeeCee says, “which is a fancy way of saying she’s going to melt it. Now give me a minute here to read this recipe.” She plonks her glasses on the bridge of her nose, while she reads. “Oh, this is gonna be fun! Says here, we can pipe in white chocolate first to make little patterns in the molds, like dots or squiggles, then, once that sets, we coat with the dark chocolate. They gonna look pretty as a picture.”
I heft up a big bag of dark chocolate buttons, and cut it open. The rich scent of cacao hits me, and it takes all my might not to grab a handful and start eating, no matter that my overfull belly screams in protest.
“Lil needs to set up a saucepan with an inch or two of water and wait for it to simmer. Then she gonna fill a big metal bowl with the dark chocolate buttons atop, so it acts like a bain-marie.”
Charlie crinkles her nose. “What’s that?”
“Kinda like a bath with a bowl on top.” Charlie looks a mite confused at Cee’s description, but shrugs her shoulders and watches our every move. Following CeeCee’s instructions, we wait for the water to heat.
“Ready?” I say to them as I add the chocolate buttons to the bowl.
Charlie ogles it as if it’s something magical. “I’ve never seen so much chocolate,” she whispers, awestruck.
CeeCee cackles. “That bag almost as big as you!”
I stir the molten chocolate, making sure to hold the bowl so it doesn’t drop into the water underneath.
“That smells like heaven itself,” CeeCee says. “I’m gonna melt a tiny bit of white chocolate so we can pipe it into the molds. You can decorate the eggs however you want, Charlie.”
She drags her gaze from the gooey pot of chocolate and claps her hands. “Really? I’m going to do love hearts!”
“Sounds perfect.” I smile.
We work quickly. I check the temperature — it’s almost at the right heat. CeeCee’s done in no time and sets up the piping bags and molds on the bench. She wipes the oval-shaped molds out with a paper towel, which will help make the chocolate eggs glossy when they’re set.
With oven mitts on, I take the bowl of lusciously liquefied chocolate off the saucepan and put it between us on the bench. CeeCee’s used piping bags to swirl thin strands