“This all needs a deep clean,” I say, running my finger along a surface and immediately regretting the contact.
“Define clean,” Lani says, poking at what might once have been a milk steamer and is now more accurately described as a petri dish with abandonment issues.
“You know, that thing where we remove the ecosystem that’s currently living in the equipment and establish dominance over the bacteria.”
Ruby disappears behind the counter and emerges with a triumphant expression usually reserved for people who have just discovered buried treasure. “Ladies, feast your eyes on this beauty.”
She’s pointing to what appears to be an industrial ice cream machine that’s been hiding behind a stack of boxes labeledDefinitely Not Broken Equipment.
“Is that what I think it is?” I ask, even though hope is a dangerous thing in this kitchen.
“Commercial grade, soft-serve capability, probably worth more than Pele herself, or the entire resort,” Lani says, running her hands over it like she’s greeting an old friend. “This thingcould churn out ice cream faster than tourists can eat it, which is saying something.”
“Ice cream,” Ruby breathes, her eyes taking on the gleam usually reserved for husband hunting or clearance sales at stores she’s already been banned from. “Do you know what the markup is on ice cream?”
“Illegal in seventeen states?” I guess because that seems to be the theme of everything profitable.
“Better,” she counters. “We’re talking profit margins that would make a drug dealer gasp with envy and seriously consider a career change.”
We spend the next twenty minutes plotting our ice cream empire flavor by flavor. Pineapple upside-down cake with vanilla, because the best way to celebrate island life is by merging desserts into something that requires medical supervision and quite possibly a cardiac event. Coconut cream pie mixed with vanilla, for the tourists who want their tropical experience to come with whipped cream. And chocolate with cookie dough and big chocolate chunks and macadamia nuts, because as Lani points out, “You just can’t go wrong with more chocolate and nuts. It’s scientifically impossible.”
“We’ll need to undercut the competition,” Ruby says, pulling out a notebook that appears to be held together by optimism and electrical tape, much like everything else in this resort. “But not so much that people think we’re serving a frozen dairy substitute instead of the real thing.”
“The cinnamon rolls will bring them in,” I say, checking our rising dough with the anxiety of a barista whose entire financial future depends on yeast performing correctly. “But the ice cream is where we make the big bucks.”
“And we don’t just want resort guests,” Lani adds, wiping her forehead. The kitchen temperature has reached levels that should require hazard pay. “We need to open up to the public. We’ve already got a beachfront location and tourist traffic. Now we need a captive audience with disposable income and poor impulse control.”
“That’s a whole lot more wallets we’ll be dealing with,” Ruby says, and her smile is the kind that probably made husband number two propose on the spot and husband number three empty his bank account.
The timer for our cinnamon rolls chooses this moment to announce that our dough has achieved the proper state of readiness. We transfer our masterpieces to baking sheets with the care of people who’ve invested way too much hope in baked goods.
“Remember, we want these the size of your head,” I remind them as we shape rolls that could double as small throw pillows.
“Check,” says Lani.
“And enough cinnamon to be tasted from space,” I add.
“Double check,” says Ruby.
I nod. “And a glaze that will require a chisel to remove from clothing.”
“Triple check,” they say in unison.
Into the oven those fluffy cuties go, our hopes and dreams wrapped in dough and covered in enough sugar to power a small carnival. Soon enough, the kitchen fills with the scent of cinnamon and possibility, and for approximately twelve minutes, I allow myself to believe that we might actually pull this pastry thing off, that maybe my nickname is just a coincidenceand not a prophecy.
Which is when the oven decides to have what can only be described as a mechanical nervous breakdown.
The temperature spikes from a perfectly controlled baking environment tosurface of Mercury experiencing a heatwavein the time it takes me to say, “Is that smoke?” The smell changes fromheavenly cinnamon goodnesstocharcoal with delusions of grandeurfaster than my last relationship went from promising to restraining order territory.
I yank open the oven door and am greeted by what were once cinnamon rolls but are now more accurately described as hockey pucks with abandonment issues.
Black.
Smoking.
Probably radioactive.
Definitely not what the food truck lady would recognize as sweet treats.
