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etc.—vied for a major cash prize by entering original recipes. Grammy Syl entered every year, along with her sister Pavla. A few years ago, Syl and Pavla had made it all the way to the semifinals in New York with their Plum Pistachio Macaroon recipe. They hadn’t won the grand prize, but they’d received a gilt-edged certificate of participation along with lots of Delicious sugar coupons and some local press. Grammy had framed the certificate and hung it in her living room next to her wedding portrait.
    But Great-aunt Pavla died last summer, and Amy had completely forgotten about the annual baking hoopla. Until now.
    Grammy was still rattling off her sales pitch. “Since Pavla passed on, God rest her soul, I need a new partner, and so I’m putting your name next to mine on the entry form. Everything has to be postmarked no later than tomorrow. Prepare to bake your way to glory, darling.” She paused as Amy choked on her wine. “Why are you laughing?”
    â€œOh, Grammy. You picked the wrong day to ask me.” Amy summarized the tartlet fiasco. “I’m very flattered that you thought of me, but there’s no way.”
    â€œOne little mishap and you’re ready to give up? For shame. Baking is in your bloodline,” Grammy said loftily. “Don’t fret; I’ll do the hard work. All you’ll need to do smile for the cameras and make the finished product look good. You can act as my food stylist.”
    Amy’s ears pricked up. “Cameras?”
    â€œOh yes. The winners are going to be showcased in a special feature for the Culinary Channel. It’s a very big deal.”
    Amy had never been on national TV. She’d never even had her name in the newspaper; Linnie had been the undisputed star of the family.
    Grammy, sensing weakness, swooped in for the coup de grâce. “And the corporate sponsors put up all the finalists in a swanky hotel in New York. Just imagine: a whole big bed all to yourself. The soft white sheets, the fluffy pillows, nothing to do at night but sleep and sleep . . .”
    Amy’s resolve wavered. “But don’t we have to come up with an original recipe?”
    â€œAlready done, darling. I’m submitting my top secret recipe for szarlotka—apple pie with a twist.”
    â€œBut that’s a family secret!” Amy said. “Hence the term ‘secret recipe.’ ”
    â€œLet’s face it—I’m not going to be around forever. Family secrets are overrated. Together we can win the whole shebang; I’m sure of it. What do you say? Are you with me?”
    â€œHang on a second.” Amy put down her wineglass and lifted her chin, sniffing the air. It smelled like . . . “Oh crap .”
    â€œWhat is it, darling? Is everything all right?”
    Amy raced into the kitchen and yanked open the oven door. Dark, acrid clouds of smoke billowed forth. She let out a squeak of despair. “Everything’s fine, but I have a code-red cookie situation. I have to go before the smoke detector goes off and wakes the kids.”
    â€œJust give me a yes or no.”
    Amy gazed down at the blackened, deflated blobs on the cookie sheet. “For both our sakes, I’m going to have to say no. I’m so sorry, Grammy, but—”
    Grammy didn’t miss a beat. “That’s all right, dear. I’ll just ask Linnie instead.”
    Amy’s eyebrows snapped together. “Come on. That’s not going to work on me. I’m not fifteen anymore.”
    â€œI’m glad to hear that. It’s high time that you and your sister got over that ridiculous rivalry.”
    â€œIt’s not sibling rivalry, Grammy; it’s more like guerrilla warfare.”
    â€œYou haven’t seen each other in years.”
    Amy didn’t respond.
    â€œAren’t you ever going to tell me what happened between the two of you?”
    â€œNo.” Amy’s tone was sharper than