District Nine Bake Off - Auditions Week!
Apr 8, 2024 21:50:22 GMT -5
Post by clover ❁ on Apr 8, 2024 21:50:22 GMT -5
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FLIP JONES.
on the signup sheet it said: "flip jones", which, to be fair, is my name.
i don't know who wrote it there, but i have my suspicions. i considered letting mayor irvine know it was a mistake, have her remove it, but then i thought, what the fuck, i can make a cake. how hard can it be? it's not like i have anything better to do with my afternoon, and besides, you get food tickets for participating. and you might get to be on tv, without having to kill anybody.
i arrive with my sleeves already rolled up. i have consulted my mother for advice. in all of my living memory, she has never baked anything, but apparently before i was born she had a signature cookie recipe. she told me: never be afraid of vanilla essence. i repeat this over and over to myself as i wait for the start, sweat dripping down my back. summer has crept up around us and today it is out in full force.
the district has really gone all-in for this one. there are little tables, set up with mixers and other equipment i've never seen before in my life and can't possibly imagine a use for. there are bags of flour as big as my baby cousin. the crowds are almost as thick as reaping day, and the mood is much more jubilant. the buzz gets to me, stirs up something in my stomach that cannot possibly be nerves.
i find my bench. it is marked with my name and difficult to miss. there is a tiny little fan installed, blowing the warm afternoon air back in my face. how thoughtful. the timer begins; mayor irvine announces, in her commanding voice, that we are to make a pie. i've always thought she was kind of hot, in an old lady kind of way. i'm never not impressed by a power suit.
a long minute passes in which i stare at the ingredients and realise i have no idea what i am doing. my mouth has gone dry. i tell myself, strictly, that i am not to panic. panic will be my undoing. boys who panic do not bake good pies. instead, i look frantically from bench to bench for somebody who looks competent. my eyes settle on a girl two rows in front of me, who is already three steps into her pie, moving around deliberately. she looks at ease, in control of the block of butter she is dispersing into her flour. her hands are deep in her mixing bowl, her brow furrowed with concentration. got it.
i go on this way until i have crafted an inauthentic pie, a direct copy of someone else's grandma's recipe. several times throughout the process, she got too far ahead of me and i had to make some big calls, but despite the lack of specific quantities what i put in the oven looks like a pie to me. i am impressed with myself. i run my finger through the remnants of the filling in the mixing bowl and lick it. it isn't half bad, if a little too sweet. while i wait for the girl to decide that her pie is ready, i make a note to thank her later, perhaps ask her for her name.
the pie emerges from the oven a little burned, a miracle. i allow myself a brief daydream of fame and fortune and fast cars before i hand it over to the judges, my life in their hands, steaming, in pie-form.
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(the judges hate the pie, bar one, who perhaps feels sorry for flip. it tastes like shit, which is to be expected, really.)