The Best Dessert in Show
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Marge stared down her opponent from across the crowded hall. A pair of cat-eye frames helping her see right through the woman’s acrylic nails, ironed thin hair, and powdered rosy cheeks. From afar, her opponent looked petite in stature, gripping onto the arm of a man who was twice her size and whose belly protruded far enough to make one’s velcro sandals invisible. Her dark hair was pulled back loosely by a butterfly clip, a few strands falling onto her golden-smooth skin. Not a freckle or crease in sight, unlike the other ladies of the Wongaton Women’s Association, whose faces sagged just as much as their bosoms. Flakes of icing sugar formed dandruff atop the bobbing heads of locals. They had all travelled from their farms to witness the ladies battle it out pastry style for the annual title of Best Dessert in Show at the Wimmera District Fair.
Marge was the reigning champion of pastries and pies. Her triple-layered sponge cake with homemade raspberry jam and cream was her magnum opus. It had taken home the 1986, 1987, and 1988 first prize at the fair, and was so popular that it went on to receive a centrefold spread in The Australian Women’s Weekly. This year was to be a knockout, with Marge entering a black forest gateau that would easily take down the contending bitter tarts and rock-hard scones. The original gateau recipe had been handed down over five generations within her late husband’s family. Since Walt’s death three years back, Marge took pride in crafting the most mouth-watering desserts for the fair. Whether she was kneading dough or piping frosted swirls, she had managed to bring the man back to the recliner, hearing his groans of delight and the clanking of fork against porcelain.
The black forest gateau was to be the most exotic thing anyone had ever seen at the fair. That is until the mango rice pudding made its debut.
The two desserts sat centre stage on a rickety wooden table. A glass cake stand showcasing the gateau’s decadent layers of custard, chocolate and cherries. It towered over the opposing pudding which sank to the bottom of a wide ceramic bowl. A piece of white card placed before it with the words, Khao niew ma muang. The judging panel consisted of locals themselves: the Mayor of Wongaton; Mr Jackson, the town’s local pub owner; and old Mrs Peterson, once a prized baker herself. They had already dug into the gateau, nodding and smiling with brown stained teeth. Spoons chiming as they dived in for seconds. With a wink, Marge accepted the nods of approval from the surrounding ladies. Their whispers of jealousy and admiration caused her nose to tilt three inches higher.
Sweat trickled from the Mayor’s brow as he began to unravel the plastic wrap around the pudding.
‘Excuse me,’ a voice called from the crowd.
The judges’ spoons froze inches away from the dessert. With a delicate hand raised, holding a clear packet of fine, dark-coloured seeds, the opponent zig-zagged her way through the crowd.
‘Can we help you, young lady?’ asked the Mayor but no reply followed, just the pitta patter of steps racing towards the stage. As the woman reached the wooden table, she snapped out her hand, shooing away the spoons like flies. And then, ever so carefully, pinched her index and thumb into the packet and sprinkled a few of the tiny seeds over the pudding. She bowed to the judges and retreated back into the crowd.
Marge remained stoic as she clocked the judges’ confused faces.
‘She’s tampering with the food. Who does she think she is?’ whispered Susan Myers, Marge’s dearest friend and the Association’s second in command.
Another lady chimed in from behind, ‘I hear she’s with Baz, the Andrews’ boy. He left to go mining in Queensland few years back. Now he’s here to stay and looks like he brought himself back a souvenir… she’s from Change My I think it was.’
‘Change My?’ asked Susan Myers.
‘Yeah, in Thailand.’
‘They’ve always got such strange names.’
‘What’s the rule against food tampin’ Marge?’
Marge sighed, ‘Let it go ladies. She’s had her five seconds of fame.’
The crowd swayed in unison, awaiting the judges’ reaction from their first bite.
In its one-hundred-year history, the town hall had seen more sugared biscuits than community meetings. It practically smelt of icing sugar and strawberries all year round which seemed to help disguise the stench of rat bait in the walls. With festivities in full swing, it was hard to imagine what the space would have looked like without the input of Marge and her brigade of baking enthusiasts at the Wongaton Women’s Association. The dessert competition ran for two days in conjunction with the district fair and was more popular than the shearing contests and cattle herding amongst the men. This was the women’s business.
The Mayor was onto his third spoonful, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as if entranced. Mr Jackson savoured the silver spoon in his mouth. His whole body relaxed, giving in to the eruption of tangy sweetness. He turned to old Mrs Peterson who grinned with dentures full of tiny brown seeds. All were moaning in delight.
Marge fidgeted with the rosary beads in her dress pocket. Within seconds, the dessert had been devoured. The judges wiped their faces with serviettes and formed a huddle. Marge patted out the creases of the lavender-print dress she had bought four months prior. She stood to attention, awaiting the results like a pageant queen ready for her crown.
As the Mayor stepped forward whispers around the hall settled. ‘Both desserts are outstanding, but I must say, and I think I speak for all of us, we’ve never quite tasted anything like that pudding… Lads and ladies, the winner is…’
A ringing like that of a muffled egg timer pounded Marge’s ears. Her body began to rock back and forth. A sudden surge of pins and needles in her feet. She watched the wave of blurred faces turn towards the woman whose butterfly clip had fallen to the ground upon embracing her partner. ‘New…reigning…champion,’ the Mayor’s words lingered like the smell of disinfectant on mouldy tiles. The last thing Marge saw was a bright Colgate smile that stretched across the foreigner’s face.
Marge was the reigning champion of pastries and pies. Her triple-layered sponge cake with homemade raspberry jam and cream was her magnum opus. It had taken home the 1986, 1987, and 1988 first prize at the fair, and was so popular that it went on to receive a centrefold spread in The Australian Women’s Weekly. This year was to be a knockout, with Marge entering a black forest gateau that would easily take down the contending bitter tarts and rock-hard scones. The original gateau recipe had been handed down over five generations within her late husband’s family. Since Walt’s death three years back, Marge took pride in crafting the most mouth-watering desserts for the fair. Whether she was kneading dough or piping frosted swirls, she had managed to bring the man back to the recliner, hearing his groans of delight and the clanking of fork against porcelain.
The black forest gateau was to be the most exotic thing anyone had ever seen at the fair. That is until the mango rice pudding made its debut.
The two desserts sat centre stage on a rickety wooden table. A glass cake stand showcasing the gateau’s decadent layers of custard, chocolate and cherries. It towered over the opposing pudding which sank to the bottom of a wide ceramic bowl. A piece of white card placed before it with the words, Khao niew ma muang. The judging panel consisted of locals themselves: the Mayor of Wongaton; Mr Jackson, the town’s local pub owner; and old Mrs Peterson, once a prized baker herself. They had already dug into the gateau, nodding and smiling with brown stained teeth. Spoons chiming as they dived in for seconds. With a wink, Marge accepted the nods of approval from the surrounding ladies. Their whispers of jealousy and admiration caused her nose to tilt three inches higher.
Sweat trickled from the Mayor’s brow as he began to unravel the plastic wrap around the pudding.
‘Excuse me,’ a voice called from the crowd.
The judges’ spoons froze inches away from the dessert. With a delicate hand raised, holding a clear packet of fine, dark-coloured seeds, the opponent zig-zagged her way through the crowd.
‘Can we help you, young lady?’ asked the Mayor but no reply followed, just the pitta patter of steps racing towards the stage. As the woman reached the wooden table, she snapped out her hand, shooing away the spoons like flies. And then, ever so carefully, pinched her index and thumb into the packet and sprinkled a few of the tiny seeds over the pudding. She bowed to the judges and retreated back into the crowd.
Marge remained stoic as she clocked the judges’ confused faces.
‘She’s tampering with the food. Who does she think she is?’ whispered Susan Myers, Marge’s dearest friend and the Association’s second in command.
Another lady chimed in from behind, ‘I hear she’s with Baz, the Andrews’ boy. He left to go mining in Queensland few years back. Now he’s here to stay and looks like he brought himself back a souvenir… she’s from Change My I think it was.’
‘Change My?’ asked Susan Myers.
‘Yeah, in Thailand.’
‘They’ve always got such strange names.’
‘What’s the rule against food tampin’ Marge?’
Marge sighed, ‘Let it go ladies. She’s had her five seconds of fame.’
The crowd swayed in unison, awaiting the judges’ reaction from their first bite.
In its one-hundred-year history, the town hall had seen more sugared biscuits than community meetings. It practically smelt of icing sugar and strawberries all year round which seemed to help disguise the stench of rat bait in the walls. With festivities in full swing, it was hard to imagine what the space would have looked like without the input of Marge and her brigade of baking enthusiasts at the Wongaton Women’s Association. The dessert competition ran for two days in conjunction with the district fair and was more popular than the shearing contests and cattle herding amongst the men. This was the women’s business.
The Mayor was onto his third spoonful, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as if entranced. Mr Jackson savoured the silver spoon in his mouth. His whole body relaxed, giving in to the eruption of tangy sweetness. He turned to old Mrs Peterson who grinned with dentures full of tiny brown seeds. All were moaning in delight.
Marge fidgeted with the rosary beads in her dress pocket. Within seconds, the dessert had been devoured. The judges wiped their faces with serviettes and formed a huddle. Marge patted out the creases of the lavender-print dress she had bought four months prior. She stood to attention, awaiting the results like a pageant queen ready for her crown.
As the Mayor stepped forward whispers around the hall settled. ‘Both desserts are outstanding, but I must say, and I think I speak for all of us, we’ve never quite tasted anything like that pudding… Lads and ladies, the winner is…’
A ringing like that of a muffled egg timer pounded Marge’s ears. Her body began to rock back and forth. A sudden surge of pins and needles in her feet. She watched the wave of blurred faces turn towards the woman whose butterfly clip had fallen to the ground upon embracing her partner. ‘New…reigning…champion,’ the Mayor’s words lingered like the smell of disinfectant on mouldy tiles. The last thing Marge saw was a bright Colgate smile that stretched across the foreigner’s face.
*
It had been a week since the Wimmera District Fair. Marge was nowhere to be seen around town. She spent her days locked up in the cottage preserving hundreds of cucumbers and dehydrating fruit slices in old mason jars. The sloshing of fruits and squeezing of lids created a rhythmic flow that seemed to aggravate her arthritis but dissipate all other worries. The same mind-numbing task that helped her deal with Walt’s passing.
By the time Marge had pickled her fiftieth cucumber the day was over, and she settled in for the long evening ahead. When she was finally able to drift to sleep––after popping a few of Walt’s expired Valium tablets––she’d conjure up the same reoccurring nightmare. The three judges standing on the stage, gorging their mouths with handfuls of pudding. And that delicate hand, playing God from the ceiling beams, sprinkling thousands upon thousands of infinite seeds with that same bloody smirk, laughing in hysterics, as the crowd danced and cheered as though rain had come to quench the drought.
The next morning, Marge awoke with a sudden rush of energy; the defeat had come to a standstill. This newly acquired lifestyle living as a recluse was hardly one Marge could keep up forever (after all, how many cucumbers does it take to pickle until madness prevails?) and thus, she summoned Susan Myers over to help her scan recipe books in search of the same foreign words she’d seen placarded before the pudding on the day of the contest. Unfortunately, for the ladies, the only exotic dishes they could find were Margaret Fulton recipes for nasi goreng, chicken chow mein, and orange rice (the latter, a refreshing dessert that involves simmering rice in orange juice and one that Mrs Susan Myers had entered into the ‘86 Fair – unfortunately she did not place that year).
‘I’m sorry it’s come to this Marge, but you know what needs to be done.’ Susan slid the White Pages across the kitchen bench.
‘I’ll need butter, eggs, and sugar,’ replied Marge.
*
Kitten heels kicked up dirt as they stepped onto a verandah that stretched along the rim of an old weatherboard. Wearing her Sunday best and carrying a Tupperware container that held her famous three-tiered sponge, Marge stared down the grey-stoned Buddha that sat atop a window ledge. With a manicured finger, she pressed the doorbell and waited.
The door whooshed open and opposite her stood a mother wearing three-quarter-length trousers and a washed denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up. A one-year-old clinging to her shoulders, sniffling and sulking. Her name was Dao.
Marge bowed with a stiff back. ‘I hope you don’t mind me dropping in like this, I realised I didn’t get to introduce myself to you at the fair,’ said Marge.
Dao gave away no sense of anxiousness nor interest, perhaps except for her toes that wriggled wildly on the spot. She reciprocated with a slight bend of the knees, as to not drop the toddler than out of formality.
‘Please, come in,’ she said.
Cool air drifted down the hallway. No smell of jasmine or spiced incense, just a mild stench of vomit and onions. Marge handed the cake to Dao.
‘It’s a sppooonnge cake,’ said Marge, sounding out the words slowly.
Dao forced a smile, juggling the toddler with the awkward container. She muttered under her breath before putting the child into a playpen.
The two women sat in the living room on a beige leather couch. Marge seated with her legs crossed, pools of sweat gathering under her thighs. Between sips of black tea, the women smiled, both equally out of place as the other. Dao watched Marge with the type of feign affection a wife would have for an in-law.
‘Excuse mess,’ she said as she caught Marge’s gaze drifting towards the building blocks strewn across the carpet.
‘That’s alright dear, I still find my husband’s socks hidden around the house. I’ll let you in on a secret…even when they’re gone, the mess doesn’t go away. Ten years from now you’ll still be finding yourself stepping on coloured bricks.’
Dao smirked, waiting for Marge to continue.
‘I must confess, I was fascinated by your dessert. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since––’
‘Ahh yes, mango rice pudding. Very popular and very easy to make.’
‘And those seeds you sprinkled on top? What were they?’
‘Secret ingredient.’ Dao lifted a finger to her mouth.
‘Cacao, sesame, chia seeds?’
The woman shook her head. Marge couldn’t grasp if it was out of confusion for the question or in an attempt to hide her secret.
‘My English is still learning. Come…’ said Dao as she stood up and ushered her guest into the kitchen.
A whiff of garlic caused Marge’s nose to twitch. A vibrant assortment of vegetables sat in bowls along the kitchen counter: strands of red cabbage, thinly chopped carrots, lettuce, basil, coriander, and spring onions. Marge had walked in on dinner preparations and was well aware of how frustrating it was for unrequested company to barge in whilst a roast chicken was in the process of being stuffed. But what an early time to prepare dinner, for it was only two-thirty, and how could any husband be satisfied with what looked to be a deconstructed salad after a day’s work – Barry did need to lose some weight, but this seemed extreme.
Dao pulled out a ceramic bowl from the fridge and placed it on the counter. Marge’s thin brows lifted. The mango rice pudding. Dao’s reckoning had finally come. It was now Marge’s chance to taste the dish and declare herself victor once and for all.
Thousands of black seeds oozing down cascades of coconut rice. Marge took the spoon from Dao and without a second thought placed a dollop in her mouth. She paused. . . With eyes closed, she savoured the zest of syrup between her tongue, the soft chunks of mango travelling down the back of her throat, the flavours transporting her back to the summer of 1935. A yellow buoy on the horizon. The aroma of coconut, her fresh curls doused in hairspray. Distant trumpets blaring through a car radio. An icy pole causing her fingers to stick. Walt cradling her in his arm as the sun set over the bay. Was this Enlightenment? she wondered. And then, an unexpected bitterness. The seeds. Like the first sip of coffee in the morning. Nutty and earthy. Counteracting the sweetness.
This was a dessert so divine Marge would surely renounce all that she had learnt about baking. Now every pavlova, every gateau, every legendary Fulton recipe Marge had created seemed mediocre in comparison to this pudding.
A click click click awoke Marge from meditation, Dao igniting the burner on the stove.
‘Glad you like,’ she whispered, easing her back to reality. She was stirring a pot of jelly-like noodles in a saucepan. ‘I’m preparing spring rolls, fresh. You know?’
Marge shook her head, ‘Show me, please.’
A transparent sheet of rice paper was submerged into a bowl of hot water. Marge watched the paper soften like a face mask before it was placed carefully onto a chopping board. Vegetables were stacked over one another. Marge mirrored the chef, ensuring the carrots were snug and the paper wound firm. Behind her, Dao prepared dipping sauces on the stove. The sweetness of tamarind paste infused with red curry and cayenne caused Marge’s perm to frizz. She could sense Dao’s glare on the back of her head, ready to pounce if a roll was not packed with enough carrot or if the rice paper tore. ‘You roll like this,’ Dao would say, snapping her tongue as she took Marge’s wrinkled hands and smoothed them along the spring rolls.
‘Cooking is what heals my sickness for home. It is the one thing I can control. And it is what brought my friends and family together,’ said Dao.
Marge lifted a teaspoon of the red curry sauce to her mouth and started coughing.
‘My cooking makes laughter… and sometime tears if too spicy,’ Dao chuckled, as she handed Marge a teaspoon of lime juice to soothe her wounds.
Marge was whisked into deep conversation. Dao reflecting on her village back in Thailand, adjusting to life abroad, and finally, of how she found the seeds. She spoke of the first time she ventured out alone, during those early months living in north-western Queensland, driving across the red plains in the second-hand ute Barry had bought her. She was desperate to escape the confines of the fly-invested unit, and with Barry working each day, boredom grew like a cancerous mole.
No longer would Dao wake to the bells of Buddhist temples or witness farmers labouring away on steep rice terraces, lush with florescent greens. Street vendors with colourful umbrellas had been replaced by canopies of dried eucalypt leaves, and the water seethed beneath the cracks in the ground, instead of falling from the skies. To love a man whose ‘head was shinier than the Great Reclining Buddha of Wat Pho’, was something she’d learn to live with, her parents had told her. Besides, desolation was temporary. The arrival of a newborn would surely ignite the shift to a more comfortable existence.
When the gauge arrow struck midway between ‘Empty’ and ‘Full’, Dao remembered Barry’s words, ‘When in doubt, filler up,’ and so she pulled into the next service station to do exactly that.
Keeping cool beneath the garage tin roof was an Indigenous woman selling herbs, spices, and fruit on a foldable table. ‘You’re a long way from home,’ the woman said. Her accent, thick. Her eyes, soft. Deep wrinkles forming intricate circles around her face. Dao pointed at the packets of seeds, gesturing for the price. ‘Those are wattleseeds,’ the woman responded, ‘fifty cents for em, great for flayva.’
The woman had told Dao that the seeds were sourced from the ‘elegant wattle’, a shrub-like tree that flowers wildly with striking golden orbs across the continent. She trickled a few of the seeds into Dao’s hand. Rolling along the creases of her palm. Smooth round balls not yet grounded to form the powder Dao would come to cook with. The woman tossed the leftovers into her mouth and nodded for Dao to do the same. Dao followed, and quickly shook her head, unsure of the taste at first.
‘But it had power,’ Dao said to Marge, ‘to level the sweetness of any dish…’
Drunk on tea and a belly full of spring rolls and sponge cake, Dao walked Marge to her car. A smear of orange across the sky signalled dusk. The engine started up, a low grumble that forced the cockatoos from a grevillea tree to take flight.
‘For you,’ Dao said, passing the packet of remaining wattleseeds through the window. ‘Please, you enjoy more than I.’
Marge hesitated for a moment but took the seeds. ‘Thank you, dear.’
‘Next time, you teach me to cook chicken roasted, your way.’
Marge smiled, tooting the horn as she drove off.
*
The ladies of the Wongaton Women’s Association sat around the town hall drinking tea and enjoying finger sandwiches tiered on matching bone china stands. Some whispered around their seats, others sucked the cream out of puffed eclairs, chocolate smudging their cheeks and flakes of pastry falling from their lips.
‘Could I have your attention please ladies,’ announced Marge as she stood up. She looked refreshed, her face no longer hard-worn and leathery. Over the past few weeks, Marge had rediscovered her love for cooking, sweating away in a sauna of a kitchen, breathing in foreign spices and experimenting with new recipes. ‘I have some news to share with you all…’ she continued, ‘I’ve decided to step down as President.’
The ladies were taken aback, turning to each other and shaking their heads in confusion. Marge enjoyed their reactions. In fact, she had dreamt that they would all respond to her departure with the same admiration they had given her during those consecutive years as champion.
‘Of course it won’t be permanent, Mrs Myers will be keeping my seat warm in the meantime… I’ve done some thinking and have decided that it’s time I step up in the world. Broaden my horizons if you like. . . ’
‘But where are you going Marge?’ asked one of the women.
‘A place you’re all familiar with.’
‘Don’t tell me, it’s not Change My is it?’
‘With the Chinese lass? So the rumours are true, you and her are…acquaintances now?’
Marge pinched her nose. ‘It’s Chiang Mai, ladies.’
The voices echoed, ‘Chi…ang Myyy.’
‘For heaven’s sake, I’m not going to Chiang Mai… Somewhere much closer… Melbourne.’
‘Melbourne?’
‘She really has lost her marbles, hasn’t she?’
‘Ladies,’ Marge interjected, her nose tilting towards the ceiling beams, ‘You are looking at the next Grand Culinary Champion of The Royal Melbourne Show.’