A Krampus Country Christmas: Day 10

 

Chapter 10: The Tinsel Bluff Bake-Off

If you asked anyone in Tinsel Bluff what the town’s most important civic event was, they’d say the Tinsel Jubilee Bake-Off. Not elections. Not the Fourth of July Parade. Not even Friday night high school football. The bake-off.

It was the Superbowl of Sugar, the Olympics of Pie, and the one day a year when Holly Winters felt like she’d rather face an IRS audit than another judging panel.

But she needed the prize money—and she needed to beat Greg North’s new girlfriend.

Lana St. James, according to Mrs. Pringle’s detailed background check, was a lifestyle influencer who had moved to Tinsel Bluff to rediscover authenticity. She owned three ring lights, used the phrase “artisan crust energy,” and pronounced pecan as “puh-kahn.”

So, naturally, she was the favorite.

Holly determined to channel all the festering angst of Max’s latest caper and Greg’s general existence into claiming the Tinsel Jubilee Bake-Off Championship. Simply put, she needed a win.

The bake-off took place in the community center gym, now transformed into a sugary battlefield. Tables draped in red and green, crockpots steaming, carolers rehearsing in the corner. Deck the Halls & Oates, naturally, performing an a-cappella sendup of “Out of Touch” called “Out of Tape”. Holly found this particularly annoying because no matter the outcome of the bake-off, she would be stuck singing “I’m out of tape, I’m out of wrap. And now this gift is gonna look like crap” for the rest of the day and night.

Holly set out her tools and dough, jaw tight. “Remember,” she muttered to herself, “smile. Be gracious. Do not throw a pie tin at Greg’s head.”

“An admirable mantra,” said Nick Kramp, appearing at her elbow in a crisp apron that read ‘Bake It Til You Make It.’

“You don’t have to help,” she said. “You can just observe or whatever consultants do when they’re not consulting.”

“Nonsense. If we’re competing, I’m invested,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. “I’ve done extensive research on crust behavior.”

She stared. “You’ve been researching pies?”

“I’m nothing if not thorough.”

He surveyed the other tables like a general appraising enemy positions. “Observe: the influencer’s station. Too much glitter. Not enough substance. She’s not in it to win it.”

Lana waved sweetly across the room; her phone mounted on a tripod. “Hi, Holly! Hope you brought your A-game!”

“Oh, I did,” Holly said, through a smile tight enough to crack enamel. Then, under her breath, “I’d like to shove a candy cane up her nose.”

Nick leaned close, voice low. “Shall I sabotage her oven? I can do that.”

“What? No!”

“Just checking your ethics parameters,” he said cheerfully. “Not only will you win, you will do so with integrity. Thus, the victory shall be even sweeter. Then, we shall celebrate the vanquishing of your foes by placing their skulls on spikes.”

“What?” Holly asked and then the whistle blew. Game on.

Chaos erupted: flour clouds, shouted timers, Christmas music turned up to an ungodly volume. Holly moved with muscle memory. Rolling, crimping, brushing butter like a woman possessed. Nick, meanwhile, worked with supernatural precision. His crust edges were mathematically perfect. His filling shimmered like molten caramelized gold. At one point, he leaned down to the oven and whispered something in a language that made Holly’s skin prickle.

“Did you just—”

“Optimize the temperature,” he said smoothly. “Local energy flow was inconsistent.”

“You mean you hexed it?”

“Don’t be absurd. That would be unethical. I merely encouraged molecular cooperation.”

Whatever he did, it worked. When the timer chimed, their pies emerged golden, glossy, and radiating an aroma that made the crowd collectively sigh.

Across the room, Lana’s pie crust had collapsed in on itself like a dying star.

“Oh no,” she said into her livestream. “The vibe must have shifted.”

Greg, standing behind her in his designer parka, looked like he wanted to dissolve into the floor.

The judges—a trio of retired church ladies who treated baked goods as both science and religion—tasted Holly and Nick’s pie first. They went quiet.

One finally murmured, “I can taste grace.”

Another whispered, “And bourbon.”

The third dabbed her eyes. “It’s been a hard year,” she said softly. “But this pie just made that all disappear.”

When the results were announced, Holly almost didn’t hear her own name. The crowd erupted in applause. Even Mayor Garland got emotional, declaring, “This pie represents the very spirit of Tinsel Bluff and what this festival and season are all about! Well done, Holly Winters!”

Holly accepted the blue ribbon with an awkward bow because she hated being in front of a crowd. She clutched the prize check as if it were Gollum's ring. It wasn't the same as winning the lottery, but it would be enough to get her and Max through the season. 

Speaking of Max, where was he?

Afterward, while people milled about congratulating them, Holly leaned against her table, laughing for the first time in days. “You realize you’ve just become a local celebrity, right? The mysterious pie whisperer?”

Nick regarded the ribbon, expression unreadable. “Recognition is irrelevant,” he said. “The work itself is the reward.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh my god. Do you ever not sound like a motivational poster?"

“What can I say? I take pride in my work,” he said sincerely.

But when she turned to pack up, he caught himself smiling. It was a small, reluctant, proud smile. Somewhere deep inside, beneath the professionalism and the brimstone, something warm had begun to stir.

He didn’t have a name for it yet. But it felt suspiciously like joy.

My new comedic sci-fi novel, Someone Else's Book Club, is available on my website or through Amazon!