Kate Is Worse Than Olives

Nobody believed in me. That was their first mistake. But I don’t blame them, at first I didn’t believe in myself either.

Twenty-eight, single, no pets, and I worked at the same dentist office since high school. Now I am the office manager. That was a fancy way of saying I did all the administrative work. I was so unremarkable and underachieving if you asked my friends for my best quality they’d probably say I was easy going which is code for not requiring anything from anyone. I don’t start fights or express strong opinions. No one would recognize me now, but I’m getting ahead of myself. It all started with Julie and my aversion to olives. See, I couldn’t even say I hated them, just an aversion, but don’t mind me, you go ahead and eat all the olives you want.

It was a muggy Friday in August and I was meeting the girls for drinks and live music. My favorite recipe to pretend that I wasn’t destined to work at a dentist office for the rest of my life, die alone, accomplishing nothing. I could pretend that I had a bright future that I would magically stumble across. The door honked as I locked it and glanced over to my regular table. Only Julie was there.

“Everyone else canceled and I didn’t want you drinking alone,” said Julie.

Three tables away, the waitress stared at me, tilted head and raised eyebrows. I nodded. I’d be having my usual cranberry vodka. It was impossible to mess up and I didn’t want to waste my money on something new.

“Looks like you have no problem drinking alone. Did you have to order extra olives? That looks disgusting,” I said, making a face at the olives.

“Martini, extra olives. You should try it sometime, Mandy,” sang Julie, without looking up. She was emergency shopping on her phone for her vacation to Italy in a few days. The wind gently tugged at my hair as I sat next to her. I pretended we were both in Italy, enjoying the heat and planning what to see tomorrow.

“What are you most looking forward to in Italy?” I asked.

Julie answered, tapping on an olive green midi dress and adding it to her cart.

“St. Peter’s Square. I’ve been there multiple times and it never disappoints. Daytime, nighttime, the basilica, the architecture, the changing of the guard. It’s all spectacular. You know I go every other year. When are you coming with me?”

I shrug, it’s all part of the dance. She invites me to go on luxurious trips and I never make a decision to go or not, so I don’t go.

“You wouldn’t like Italy anyway,” says Julie. “You don’t like olives or seafood.”

“I’ll come someday, just keep asking me. I could live off of pasta and gelato. No problem.”

A shadow falls across the table. While I appreciate the shade, I did not appreciate the company. Suppressing a groan, I plaster a smile across my face.

“Hello, Kate.”

“Hi Mandy. Did I hear you don’t like olives?” asked Kate, a smirk on her face.

“I don’t prefer them. Looks like the music is about to start,” I said, hoping Kate would move along.

“No wonder you never win the apple pie contest. Anyone who doesn’t like olives doesn’t have a refined palate,” said Kate. “But not everyone can place in the top three every year.”

Kate glided back to her table as my hatred for her rose from a slumbering smolder to a controlled flame like the Bunsen burner I had in seventh grade. One tiny flame burning so hot it was blue. Years of snide comments that I smiled blandly at, and for some cosmic reason this is the one that broke the dam of all my unrealized potential.

“She’s worse than olives,” I said to Julie, gripping the arms of my chair. “I’m going to destroy her at the apple pie contest in October.”

Julie nodded and echoed my dislike for Kate while scrolling on her phone. She’d heard me make countless pronouncements like this, but this time was different. I was tired of pretending, tired of feeling stuck. If I could take this small step to defeat Kate’s ten year streak of placing in the top three then maybe I could slay the other giants in my life too. No matter what, Kate was going down.

The acoustic guitar and moody male voice faded into the background as my mind was created a winning strategy for baking the best apple pie. Sprinkled in were visions of me winning and Kate running away in horror, tripping and face planting into her pie. Kate had woken a sleeping giant that nobody, even myself knew existed. We were all in for a surprise.

For weeks I waded through countless YouTube chefs. I never noticed how annoying bad audio was and the variety of bizarre chef personalities that were out there. Finally, I found one that didn’t make my skin crawl and had useful information. He didn’t talk down to his audience, you’d be surprised how many online chefs sounded condescending, and his tips were applicable for someone working out of their own kitchen. The only problem was that these videos were twenty years old so you had to ignore his weird hair. And he had this cheesy sign off that I would never admit warmed my heart, “All my favorite people are bakers. Thank you for being one of them”.

Pies became a secret obsession, I even started resenting going to my weekly happy hour with the girls. I hadn’t told them. They had seen me tackle crazy idea after crazy idea and I always flared out. I didn’t want to experience that mixture of encouraging words but an empty void behind their eyes. Like I said earlier, none of us believed in me and I didn’t want to give them one more reason to do so.

It was getting harder to keep this secret. One person should not eat a whole pie by herself, although it may have happened once or twice. Pie after delicious pie was hitting my trash can and it felt criminal to be so wasteful. My grocery bill had gone up, but I had compensated by not buying my daily latte, a dramatic sacrifice, but my Bunsen burner hatred was pushing me hard. All I had to do was think about Kate saying I didn’t have a palate to keep driving past my local coffee shop.

And that was when my next brainwave kicked in. Driving past the coffee shop, zoning out as I drove to work my usual route I realized I needed an outside, impartial opinion. There must be other apple pie contests out there. The rest of the morning, in between scheduling patients and resolving insurance inquiries, I searched for local apple pie contests. They couldn’t be too close, so I only looked at ones at least 100 miles away. Even that was a risk. Small towns like to talk and people tend to have relatives nearby, like invasive weeds. They pop up in seemingly unrelated locations, but underneath they’re all connected.

This Friday afternoon was a 5K run and apple pie contest 120 miles away. It was perfect, the office closes at noon, I would bake my pie, then rush off to the event. Grinning as I filled out my application online, I started to wonder what I’d tell the girls. I’d have to miss our regular happy hour. I’d tell them I had a headache. Easy, simple, and not serious enough to check in on me.

The rest of the week passed quickly, and the next thing I knew I was in the car, a beautiful pie in the passenger seat next to me. The smell filled the car and I constantly reminded myself not to pull over and eat it. It smelled delicious, and I was nervous. The crisp white pie box I carried it in made me feel professional even though I knew it didn’t matter. Pies weren’t displayed in boxes. As I slowly navigated the crowded check-in I protected that pie box like it was a newborn in a flu infested family event.

“Here’s your ticket with your pie number on the back. The judging will begin at 8 p.m. and they will announce the winner before 8:30 p.m.,” said the volunteer as I reluctantly relinquished my pie baby to her. “You have to be present to win.”

I watched as they placed my pie on a table of pies, suddenly anonymous. Didn’t they know that was a piece of my soul they had so callously set next to a multitude of bland imitations of a pie? Uniform pies lined the tables in their aluminum pie tins. Mine had to stand out. The crimping was perfect, maybe too perfect? Had I remembered to add the cardamom? What if the judges didn’t like cardamom? Mine had a lattice crust, but maybe I should have done a crumble or a full double crust. Which pie top was the best? Beads of sweat popped on my forehead that had nothing to do with the warm weather as I checked the number on my ticket, #28. Same as my age, perhaps it was a sign. Good or bad, I have no idea. I decided it meant I was at the right place at the right time.

With a deep breath I realized I had two hours to kill in a town where I knew no one, and no cranberry vodka in sight. I was breaking all of my usual routines. I felt like I had as a kid when my friends buried my legs in the sand. It was exciting to burst from the wet sand but then you had to decide what to do next. Run into the water and rinse off the sand, or dive back in and get buried again? My stomach rumbled, making the decision for me. It was time to eat.

The small town didn’t have many choices, which was a plus in my opinion. After consuming a Mexican meal that I didn’t taste at all, I arrived back at the pie judging fifteen minutes before it started.

“Here for the pie judging?” asked a voice to my right.

It was an older man who reminded me of my grandpa, fit for his age, slight belly, laugh lines etched in his wrinkles. Something about him seemed familiar. His golden retriever whined and wagged its tail.

“Yes,” I said, looking down at those soulful dog eyes. “Can I pet him?”

“Sure. This is Flapjack, because of his floppy ears, but everyone calls him Jack. It’s pretty confusing because my name is Jack,” said the human Jack.

“I’m Mandy.”

Talking to strangers, petting dogs. I didn’t recognize myself. Both things are fine, just not part of my normal routine. It felt good but unfamiliar. I moved robotically, patting the dog’s head.

“He really likes his ears scratched,” said Jack.

I gave it a shot and dog Jack opened his mouth, tongue lolling out, and leaned into my hand.

“Ha, he really likes it,” I said in surprise.

“Goldens are one of the happiest dogs. Give them attention and they worship you,” said Jack with a smile in his voice. “I entered the contest too. If they don’t eat the whole pie I’m not sure what I’m going to do with the rest of it. I can’t eat half a pie on my own before it goes bad. I mean I could, but I shouldn’t.”

I laughed.

“I know what you mean. I’ve been cooking pies for weeks trying to level up my baking. Sadly, most of it goes in the trash,” I said. “This is my test run. I need to destroy my competition next month.”

Jack's eyebrows rose.

“Am I sensing a competitive spirit?”

“Maybe,” I said, heat flooding my cheeks.

“Nothing to be ashamed of. All great cooks are competitive.”

“I never thought I’d say this, but I’m tired of eating my own pies.”

“How about we trade pies after the judging?” asked Jack. “I like culinary surprises. It could shake me out of my usual routine.”

This was turning into one of the strangest moments of my life. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was also one of the most important conversations of my life. We agreed and watched the judges taste each pie, and since we couldn’t hear what they were saying, we made up our own commentary.

“This pie has too much salt in it, perhaps the cook confused it with the sugar,” I said as the blond judge wrinkled her nose.

“Ha, who hasn’t made that mistake? But I think it has too much cinnamon. Smells great, but too gritty.”

I was having so much fun with both Jacks that I was shocked when the judges stepped forward to announce the winners. They gave a blanket speech that I could not focus on and wished I could put on 3x speed.

“In third place is #43.”

A dark haired middle aged woman bounded forward, clearly happy with her prize. A blue ribbon with a large number 3 on the badge. My eyes narrowed, jealous of her accomplishment. What would I do if I didn’t place?

“In second place #28.”

My ears felt like they had popped, and I was lightheaded. Jack nudged me forward as realization dawned on me. Propelled by a second nudge from Jack, I walked forward, face beaming. I’d never placed for anything in my life. Standing politely next to the dark haired lady we all waited to see who the winner was.

“And first place of the Fireman’s 5K run and annual pie contest is #12.”

And wouldn’t you know it, the Jacks marched forward and winked at me. Yes, both the human and the dog. There was an applause and a small groan from the third place woman as she whispered to me.

“They really should ban professionals from entering the contest. He wins every year.”

Maybe that’s why he seemed familiar. I squinted at Jack, wracking my brain for where I had seen him before but came up empty. He accepted his first place ribbon and faced the crowd.

“As I always like to say. All my favorite people are bakers,” said Jack. “Thanks for coming out tonight.”

My jaw dropped as he took his place next to me. I did know a version of him that was twenty years younger, no gut, no dog, but surrounded by a kitchen filled with flour, butter, and apples. This was my YouTuber that taught me to cook my award winning pie. The crowd began to disperse as the local paper took a picture of us. Once that was done, I turned to Jack.

“I’ve seen your YouTube channel,” I said, star struck. “You taught me how to bake pies. Like really bake them.”

Jack’s face went slack in shock.

“You watched my videos? That was forever ago. Were they any good? Well, I guess the proof is in the pie. Now we have to swap. I need to know how my virtual pupil did.”

“Sure, and congratulations,” I said.

Jack held out his box and I snatched it up, placing mine in his outstretched empty hands.

“Same to you,” said Jack.

I grabbed plastic forks from the judges’ table and handed one to Jack. While we sampled our pies his friends, I mean favorite bakers, came over and introduced themselves. I met a young couple in their twenties, another in their thirties, and a few other singles like me in various ages.

“Hey,” said the woman in her twenties who I think was named Anna. “Do you want to join us for trivia night tomorrow? We’re there every week.”

After warning them I wasn’t an expert at any category, she gave me the details. Jack threw in the promise of sharing recipes, and Jack the dog licked the pie crumbs off of my hand. I couldn’t resist, and agreed to come. What kind of person says no to a golden retriever?

“Is this the first pie contest you’ve entered?” asked Jack.

“No, but it’s the first one I’ve actually tried to win.”

And it hit me like a truckload of butter. I’ve been phoning in my performance my whole life. There wasn’t a bright future out there waiting for me to magically stumble upon. I had to chase it down and tackle it. If I could put this kind of energy into a pie contest, what else could I do?

I climbed back into my car,smiling. My Bunsen burner rage to beat the pants off of Kate didn’t feel so important anymore. I knew I could bake an amazing pie, and I’d done it all on my own. Even though I still hated olives and seafood, I felt like the world was my oyster and I was ready to go pearl hunting. And that, my friends and bakers, was only the beginning of my life changing feud with Kate.