The Konfessioner's Word:

Another beautiful mind engages you this week, welcome Janie from England! The first poem I read by this amazing lady was one called "yellow" a passage from which I take the liberty to quote--

"Yellow is the sky
Yellow is the colour
Of daisy centres
That catch my eye
As we walk in yellow fields
Spilling our secrets
Like poppy seeds on Sunday..."

And this is Janie in her element...bright, beautiful and friendly, the yellow sunflower this week at Karma n Konfessions. Cake wars is something deliciously different from what we've featured in the Konfession Korner in the past few weeks... Who's cake wins? Cynthia or Margaret? did your tastebuds tingle? mine did! read on!

- Shinjini Singh

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Author Intro:

Hello, my name is Janie and I live in England. I started writing in February 2006 and found out that I quite enjoy it. Now just I can’t stop and my house, which used to be like a Wimpy show home, is a total mess because I’m too busy writing. I only do housework when my Mother is due to visit, she is a cleaning freak and would go ballistic saw it now…please somebody help me!! Is there a writers anonymous group I can attend where I can get help?…preferably with the vacuuming.

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Cake Wars

The scent of raspberries and baking filled the kitchen. Margaret hummed along to ‘Blake’s Jerusalem’ as she bustled about. She was making cakes and her famous prize winning jam for the church jumble later that day.

“There’s no way that Cynthia is going beat me this time. Who does she think she is anyway?” she said to herself, stirring yet more sugar into the scarlet vat of bubbling globules. “She comes along as brazen as you like, fluttering her eyelashes, chatting up the vicar. She has no idea of church protocol. She’s shameless is that one! Her in her low cut blouses and lacy under slip hanging below her skirt… like a harlot!” Her face hardened and turned the colour of a damson plum when she thought of her rival.

Cynthia had enrolled with the WI not long ago when she’d moved into the area. A widow, looking for time to fill, she’d joined the women’s institute in the hopes of making new friends, but Margaret, the chairperson, had taken an instant disliking to her, when, at the monthly church jumble sale, Cynthia had set up a cake stall. That was Margaret’s department, nobody could bake like Margaret, the woman prided herself on her cream horns and éclairs like you wouldn’t believe and hadn’t taken kindly to the competition at all. Her face had been like stone when all the blue rinse regulars had tried out Cynthia’s wares and then she’d heard them gushing about her chocolate muffins later.

Margaret had spoken to Vicar about it afterwards but had gotten nowhere

“Vicar, I’m sure we don’t need two cake stalls at the jumble,” she’d said, giving him the evils. Margaret had proper fallen out with him of late, he’d ignored her a lot since Cynthia had arrived on the scene and her nose felt distinctly out of joint. Margaret had always prided herself on being his blue-eyed girl but it seemed to her that Cynthia had taken over that slot too.

“One can never have enough cake Margaret,” he’d replied, nibbling voraciously on one of Cynthia’s cream puffs, "besides, it’s all good for business, we’ll have that new church roof in no time at all.”

And so it came to pass that the cake wars began.

Every month, the women would each try to outdo the other by coming up with more and more exotic recipes and fancies than the last time. The one with the most cakes left over at the end of the day was deemed to be the loser. The one whose big cake was chosen for the raffle would glance across at the other with a knowing smirk, as if to say “ yes you bitch, my coffee gateaux pissed all over that pathetic lemon torte of yours.”

Cynthia wasn’t usually so competitive about things, but she’d decided that Margaret needed pulling down a peg and that she was the one to do it. This month would be different; she had a secret ingredient to add to her cakes, ensuring her victory. Her nephew had dropped by as she was baking and she’d told him about Margaret and the cake wars.

“Never fear Auntie, I have just the thing, this will keep the punters coming back to your stall all afternoon, I guarantee it,” he’d said producing a bag of green crushed leaves. “It’s a special herb, you know how cats love catnip? Well, this has the same effect, only on humans. Nobody will be able to stop eating your cakes once they’ve tried one, you’ll be sold out in no time at all, I‘d bake extra if I were you”

Cynthia sniffed it. “It smells strange,” she’d said looking dubious.

“Trust me,” he’d replied, “if you don’t sell the lot I’ll buy them myself.”

Cynthia liberally sprinkled the herbs into each of her batches of cake mixture. Her eyes gleamed when she saw her butterfly buns and rock cakes rising n the oven, they looked fantastic. Now all she had to do was decorate her gateaux, and if that got picked for the raffle, well, that would truly be the icing on the cake for her, equivalent to sticking vees up to that old battleaxe.

The stalls were all set up ready and waiting for the church doors to open as the vicar did his final inspection. Margaret and Cynthia’s stalls were bang opposite across the hall. Their eyes met and they stared daggers at each other through the haze of potted plants, old crockery and wind chimes. A rowdy mob of pensioners could be heard outside, all chomping at the bit to get in and snap up the bargains.

“Right, battle stations ladies,” the vicar addressed his harem of fundraisers as he unbolted the huge wooden doors.

He was almost crushed against the font as the blue rinsers barged through, knocking him flying.

It was always the same; first they browsed the stalls, arguing over who’d seen what first and who should buy it. Sometimes fisticuffs would ensue as hands grabbed at things already being considered by others. Maureen went home with a black eye once, and all over a crimplene frock too. They were like animals. Then it was tea and cake time. It was a bit quieter then, once they’d got cream doughnut or two down them.

Trade was brisk at both stalls initially, Cynthia was rushed off her feet, she’d already sold half of her stock. It was about twenty minutes later when she noticed a strange glazed look in the vicar’s eyes as he munched on one of her butterfly buns.. his third actually. The blue rinse brigade looked distinctly chilled too as they sat supping tea and munching her cakes like there was no tomorrow.

Gloria and Doris approached Cynthia for yet more scones, their uncontrollable giggles could be heard as they stuffed themselves silly. Soon word got around about how fabulous Cynthia’s cakes were. The queue stretched from the organ to the altar as Cynthia bagged up the remains of her bakes and then Vicar slurred his announcement.

“Raffle tickets are now on sale for Cynthia’s wonderful chocolate gateaux.”

Everyone went into a ticket buying frenzy then. Vicar even had to send out for more ticket books, such was the demand.

“By Jove I think you’ve done it Cynthia, the roof is sight!” he cried, gazing at her ample breasts. A strange feeling washed over him, he could feel his erection growing beneath his cassock. “Would you like to stay and have a sherry with me afterwards?”

“I’d love to vicar,” Cynthia smiled triumphantly, fluttering her lashes profusely.

Margaret stood behind her cake stall looking like an ice maiden. Her full trays of scones, cream horns and éclairs stared sadly back at her. Her jars of unsold prize winning jam with their frilly gingham caps seemed to mock her. She was the only one in the room without a smile plastered from ear to ear.

Margaret did smile sometime later. It was after she’d eaten her third slice of chocolate gateaux, the one she won in the raffle.