I watch Team Barbie’s World attempt synchronizedmeasuring. Mid-spoon-lift, Parker leans in for a theatrical dip kiss that nearly sends a mixing bowl flying.
I chuff loudly.
Across the way, I notice and hear Team Tune-Up debating about bakeware. I almost think their marriage depends on it.
“Glass conducts heat more evenly!” Amanda hisses, brandishing a pie pan as a shield.
Luis counters with equal fervor. “Metal gets you that golden crust! We’ve talked about this!”
“Not during a live event, we haven’t!”
Meanwhile, I observe that The Over-actors are fully committed to their characters. Jasper sinks to one knee, lifting a spoonful of mashed yams toward his partner’s mouth in a gesture worthy of a marriage proposal on Broadway.
“Open your heart,” he intones, “and your palate.”
Maribel clutches her chest like she’s about to faint, then accepts the bite in slow motion. The small crowd nearby breaks into polite applause. I golf clap and catch Marty mouthing, “What in the world is happening?” to Pen, who lifts her shoulders and keeps refilling coffee cups.
And then there’s Peaches, prancing about, looking every bit a circus clown’s dog. With her teeth, she swipes a kitchen towel off the nearest table before disappearing into the crowd. Furry bandit.
The potluck challenge, also known as “Love on a Platter,” is disarray dressed as a small-town tradition. Think church basement meets neighborhood cook-off. More laid-back and hearty than the candlelit dinner we put together. After the judges sample what each team creates, the dish goes on a long community table and anyone can sample all the dishes.
Delores explained earlier that each couple is responsible for cooking and serving one dish that hits four targets on the scoring rubric: taste, hominess, communication, and, teamwork.
The judges? Local staples. Marty from the diner. Mayor Whitcomb. Mrs. Greer from the post office. And the rest? Volunteers with clipboards and critical eyes.
But it’s not just them. The Stitch Sisters are here too, eagle-eyed behind reading glasses, ready to dissect not just the food, but every blink, brush of the hand, and unspoken romantic dynamic.
Suddenly I turn to the side as I hear Maisie hyping up the crowd, drawing attention to the dish we plan to make. Cheering loudly and clapping rhythmically, so all the judges and other contestants can hear and watch:
“Spicy-sweet, soft and bold—cornbread magic, fresh and gold! We rise, we shine, we mix it right—Team Quinn-Callahan, take the bite!”
It’s straight from a cheerleader’s handbook, and Maisie even manages to get off the ground in a sort-of split leap.
It earns a few whistles from the crowd, but then I hear it, a well-meaning comment from Sweetpines’ high school principal, “You know, Maisie, you could dial it down just a notch. We all know the goal is to win, already.”
Then to her assistant, the principal adds, “That girl always did want to be the center of attention.”
I see the hesitance in her smile, the way her chin lifts half a second too late. It’s a familiar deflection, but I’ve never seen her shrink back into herself the way she is doing now. She’s wilting as quickly as a hydrangea left out of water.
Without saying anything, Maisie turns and, with shouldersslumped inward, she walks slowly to our cooking station.
Not knowing what to do to bring back the Maisie I’m used to, I softly rub her back and say without thinking, “Hey. Come on. Where’s the Maisie I know and love? I need her on my team right now.”
She lifts her face to look into my eyes, and the green sparkles in her eyes are gone, replaced by an expression I’ve seen in the mirror that says, “I’m here, but I need to protect myself right now.”
I hope we can pull it together to finish out the evening’s contest, and sure enough, with a few deep breaths, Maisie is back and ready to go.
She had insisted we make her grandma’s spiced cornbread muffins. “They’re foolproof,” she’d said. “If we don’t win on taste, we’ll win on nostalgia.”
As I quickly find out, though, someone had different plans.
I stir the batter as Maisie adds ingredients. Then she carefully carries the tray to the cast iron community oven Sweetpines borrowed from the historical society—a relic that’s usually used for chili cook-offs and orchard pies.
Volunteers fired it up that morning, and now it sits near the square’s fountain, hot and slightly smoky, surrounded by aluminum tables and folding chairs.
Once the cornbread muffins are baked, I plate up with no issues. The batch looks golden and puffy and smells like butter, cinnamon, and a hint of spice.
But then I take a bite to taste-test before giving them to the judges, and I’m swallowing a bonfire. Not heat—pain. My tongue recoils. My throat starts to burn. My eyes water as if I ate a breakup ballad and it kicked back.
