Takes the Cake

Seven hundred feet above the Sonoma Valley, Thea regretted her recent life choices. 

Last night, in her cozy kitchen, she’d been full of confidence as she built the foundation for a smörgåstårta. Now, braced on a swaying wicker floor, she wondered if forty-five minutes would be enough to garnish the savory Swedish sandwich-cake.

Martin yanked the blast valve to maintain altitude.

Whoosh!

A massive flame roared into the balloon’s envelope. Thea flinched, dropping her 32-gauge injector needle. 

Deep breath. Don’t panic.

The base of her design was already finished: herb-oil-infused crème fraîche for the rolling green hills; translucent cucumber-ribbon fields; topsoil made of dried oil-cured olives. Thick fence lines would ruin it; she’d have to improvise. Later.

Thea squeezed her eyes shut for three seconds, recalibrating. 

With offset tweezers, she perfectly placed a line of pulverized pumpernickel crumbs leading from a crouton barn dusted with beet powder. Cauliflower floret sheep nestled amongst dill fronds, completing the pastoral scene.

Below, a tannish pickup crawled along the access road, marring the fertile landscape she was duplicating. 

“Martin—is that truck supposed to be there?” 

“Nope,” the pilot grunted. “Area’s cordoned off for the competition.” He lifted his binoculars with one hand, keeping the other near the valve. Thea turned back to the prep table, fretting over the needle crisis.

Martin snorted. “What’re those idiots—is that a drone?”

Absorbed in her intricate work, Thea barely heard him. Winning meant funding to open her restaurant. Losing, especially to Victor King, was unthinkable. 

“Production crew filming the contestants?” she guessed, carefully placing a broccoli oak tree.

“Negative. They use yellow Transit vans. That’s a Dodge Ram dually, early 2000s model.”

Ding! Thea’s watch chimed the half-time warning. As she bent to grab a packet of snipped chives from the cooler, a thin beam of morning sun glinted off stainless steel caught between a jar of capers and a tin of beluga caviar. 

Capturing the prized needle between thumb and finger, Thea awkwardly tore open an alcohol prep pad and sanitized the tiny tool before tucking it into its holder.

She picked up the offset tweezers and began placing three-inch chive stalks around the outside of the smörgåstårta.

Zzzzz… The electronic mosquito’s insistent buzz disturbed her concentration. She looked up. A pale gray drone circled the basket. It made another revolution, spiraling inward—close enough to ruffle the dill fronds.

“Hang on,” Martin growled. “Goin’ up!” He tugged the valve. Thea steadied the table, ready this time for the blast of noise and heat.

Whoosh!

The balloon rose on the updraft, settling into a peaceful bob. Thea readied the precision needle and began to draw the fence.

“Look out,” Martin murmured. “It’s chasing us.”

Zzzzz… Buzzing like an angry hornet, the drone hovered. Thea’s chive grass trembled.

“Nice try, Victor.” She swapped the fine implement for a pre-loaded syringe full of lemon mousse, leaned over the basket’s edge, and pressed the plunger—blinding the camera lens with a citrus-yellow blob.