Ozzy chooses this moment to start fussing, his little face scrunching up in that pre-cry expression that gives me approximately five seconds to intervene before he wakes Corbin and all baby heck breaks loose.
Mom swoops in like a pearl-wearing superhero and scoops Ozzy out of the stroller. “I’ll get him settled and sign you up for the competition, sweetheart.” She disappears into the crowd,cooing at Ozzy, who immediately stops fussing because, apparently, Glam Glam has magical powers.
Corbin starts fussing two seconds later because I’m guessing he senses a disturbance in the force. For reasons unknown to me, the boys hate to be separated.
I pick him up, park the stroller against the wall, and bounce him gently while Meg, Carlotta, and I make our way toward the tables.
“All right,” I say, surveying the spread. “Let’s see what we’re up against.”
The casserole table is a study in cream-of-something excess. There’s a green bean casserole with crispy onions on top, a tuna noodle situation that’s probably been a family recipe since the Eisenhower administration, something called “King Ranch Chicken” that looks like it could feed a small army, and at least three variations of “funeral potatoes”—which is apparently what normal people call my cheesy hashbrown heaven.
Great. I’m not even original.
But the Jell-O table? That’s where things get wild.
There’s a lime Jell-O mold with shredded carrots suspended inside like tiny orange prisoners. A cherry Jell-O ring filled with canned fruit cocktail that jiggles ominously when someone walks past. An orange Jell-O creation with mini marshmallows that looks like it’s hosting a tiny campout. A layered situation with alternating stripes of red and white Jell-O that must have taken actual engineering skills to construct.
And then there’s the nightmare fuel.
A pale yellow Jell-O mold shaped like a fish. With olive slices for eyes. And what appears to be shredded celery for scales.
“Who hurt that person?” Meg whispers.
“Whoever it was, they hurt them bad,” I reply.
Carlotta grunts, poking at a bright blue Jell-O mold that seems to contain coconut shavings and possibly pineapple chunks. “This one looks like it’s radioactive. Ithink I love it.”
“Lottie!”
I turn to see Suze in a pastel number that’s seen better decades, and she happens to be bearing down on us, holding a rectangular white Jell-O mold that has little yellow strips floating in it like?—
“Are those toenail clippings?” Carlotta blurts out.
All three of us recoil instinctively. Although let’s face it, I was sort of thinking it, too.
Suze looks only mildly offended. “It’s coconut delight! coconut milk, vanilla pudding, cream cheese, and crushed pineapple.”
“And the toenail clipping thingies?” Carlotta asks, peering closer with the kind of horrified fascination usually reserved for car accidents.
I’m trying not to laugh because Carlotta and I clearly share the same brain cell when it comes to Jell-O mold observations. A terrifying thought for more than one reason.
“They’re toasted coconut shreds,” Suze says curtly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a Jell-O challenge to win.” She marches off toward the judging table, her pin curls not moving an inch.
“More like a Jell-O crime to commit,” Carlotta mutters. “That thing looks like it belongs in evidence lockup, not a baking competition.”
A bell chimes from the front of the room, and we turn to find Mom standing at a podium that’s been set up near the banner, holding a microphone. She looks every inch the co-chair of a powerful women’s organization—regal, composed, and slightly terrifying in that motherly way that makes you want to simultaneously hug her and confess all your sins. That’s basically my mother in a nutshell—or a lemon peel.
“Welcome, Daughters of Honey Hollow!” Her voice carries across the room, warm and clear. “Thank you all for being here today. I know this is a somber time for our organization. Vivienne Pemberton-Clarke was a pillar of this community, a fierceadvocate for our traditions, and a woman who knew how much work went into this week of celebration. She would have wanted these events to go forward as planned. She dedicated her life to preserving our history and our connections to one another, and I believe the best way we can honor her memory is to continue that work.”
A murmur of agreement ripples through the crowd.
“Vivienne had high standards,” Mom continues, “and she expected excellence from all of us. So today, let’s show her that her legacy continues. The judging will begin in five minutes! And don’t forget—we’ll also be doing a People’s Choice Award, so everyone gets a chance to vote for their favorite dish. Let’s taste these wonderful creations!”
The crowd applauds politely, and then it’s chaos as fifty women in poodle skirts descend on the tables like a pastel-colored swarm of locusts.
“I want a slice of that Jell-O with the olives,” Meg announces. “It reminds me of my college days shooting Jell-O shots off questionable surfaces in questionable company.”
“Wednesday Addams over here has excellent taste,” Carlotta says, following Meg toward the nightmare fish mold.
