Rob looked back at us and grinned, tapping his nose. “What can I say? Thompson family genes. Always sticking our noses in places they don’t belong.”
I watched him walk over to a group that included Joy. “What the heck did he mean by that?”
“No clue, but knowing him, I’d suggest not trying to figure it out.” She glanced at her watch. “Excellent, the potluck is past its official ending time, which means we had a successful event and I can take the last of your grandmother’s dessert home to enjoy in peace. See you tomorrow, Lila.”
She paused, watching Rob stand next to Joy. He didn’t do anything, didn’t even seem to be talking to her, but she still said, “You might want to have a word with her. Just in case.”
As she said that, Bernadette materialized between Joy and Rob, creating space between the two. I couldn’t hear what she said from where I stood, but Rob’s response obviously didn’t jell with her because she started taking her earrings off. Joy pulled Bernadette away before she could start swinging on Rob, saving me the trouble. I had no idea what just happened, but our family didn’t need an assault charge, especially against one of the Thompsons. Our lawyer was good, but no one was that good.
“You need to get your brother under control,” I said to Valerie.
“You think I haven’t tried? I just hope he doesn’t do anything to ruin the pageant,” she said, watching her brother grimly. As he slid his arm around one of the moms, she added, “But ruining things is what he does best.”
Chapter Five
I woke up the next morning in a funk, one that persisted through my solitary breakfast, since my aunt and grandmother were at church. Well, not completely solitary since my dachshund, Longganisa, was with me. She’d eaten her diet kibble at lightning speed and was now curled up at my feet, waiting to pounce on the inevitable dropped bits of food. I’d just broken the yolk on my perfect sunny-side up egg when I got a text from Adeena, reminding me to stop by the cafe later to finish setting up the altar space Elena had planned, and oh, where was my part of the menu?
Well, there went my appetite. I pushed my barely touched plate away, knowing it was time to face the truth. I’d been avoiding this for months, hoping it’d all work itself out in the end （my usual way of handling things） but there it was: I’d lost my baking mojo.
I couldn’t explain it. Normally, I brimmed with baking ideas and my aunt couldn’t keep our kitchen stocked with enough eggs, butter, flour, and sugar since I ran through them so quickly. But for the last few months, I’d felt blocked while the ingredients piled up in the fridge.
I flipped through the beautiful leather-bound bullet journal I used to jot down my recipes, hoping something would catch my eye. I needed something spectacular for my part of the menu, something that would bring people to the cafe in droves. Something that would put us on the map. This was my dream and it needed to be perfect. But as I scoured the book, trying to find something worthy of the Brew-ha Cafe, I grew more and more dissatisfied with the simple recipes I’d compiled. But Adeena and Elena were counting on me. I had to figure this out.
I slammed the book shut and racked my brain to remember the last time I was wowed by a pastry. Images of a gorgeous croquembouche, a cake composed of filled cream puffs stacked with caramel and spun sugar, filled my head. If I filled them with ube, coconut, and pandan pastry creams, it’d be a wonderful Filipino-French fusion dessert that was sure to stop people in their tracks. Picturing it as the centerpiece of our stall for Founder’s Day, I hurried off to research the various components and create my own award-winning recipe.
Five hours, an ungodly amount of eggs and sugar, plus several caramel burns later, I had a hideous stack of soggy pastry balls in front of me. It was not elegant. It was not beautiful. It wasn’t even tasty. What it was, as I stared in anger at the mess I’d made, was a colossal waste of time and good ingredients. The counter, stove, table, and I were covered in flour and caramel drips. The sink was piled with dirty dishes. And as I stood there, trembling with the urge to smash some plates, who should walk in but Tita Rosie and Lola Flor.
“Ay nako! Anak, what happened? Are you OK? Did you burn yourself?” Tita Rosie rushed over and examined me for injuries. She pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at my face, which was when I realized I was crying.
I sniffed and wiped at my face, smearing even more mess across it. “I’m OK, Tita. Just frustrated is all. I was trying to figure out a new recipe for the cafe and ended up with a big failure. I’m sorry, I’ll clean it up soon.”