Page 30 of The Baking Games
Their excitement is palpable. Their eyes light up as we enter with our large containers of cookies. They seem so genuinely happy to see us. It makes me slightly sad because I wonder how many of these people never get visitors. How many of their families have just dropped them off here and barely come to see them? I'm sure there are some good families that are coming constantly to check on their relatives, but everyone knows that some of these people probably never get a visitor at all. I take it as a great responsibility today to make sure that I interact with as many of them as possible and bring positivity and light into their lives today.
The sweet aroma of the cookies probably precedes us, weaving its way through the room and drawing out some eager glances from some of the residents.
"Welcome!” A woman with silver hair and a name tag claps her hands together. Her voice is as cheerful as the colorful cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. "We have been looking forward to this all week. Our residents can't wait to get their hands on some of those sweet treats you're holding."
I step forward, balancing the bowl of cookies that I've taken from Rhett. "We are so excited to be here," I say. “And we hope the residents enjoy these as much as we enjoyed making them."
She smiles and takes the bowl of cookies from me before walking over to a table and opening them. Several other contestants take their bowls and trays of cookies and put them on the same table. They already have milk and coffee set up for anybody who wants to enjoy the cookies. And several of the residents make their way over there very quickly.
As I move among them, I watch them choose between the different types: chocolate chip, peanut butter, hazelnut, caramel, and colorful sprinkle cookies. There's just about everything you can think of.
I listen to their stories in snippets of conversation as I walk. One man, whose hands tremble slightly as he reaches for a cookie, tells me about his grandchildren and how he used to bake with them when they were little. He hasn't seen them in a while, he says. They live far away. I try not to well up with tears when I hear him and how sad he is that he hasn't seen them in so long.
Another resident is a petite little lady with sparkling blue eyes that still stand out among the well-earned wrinkles on her face. She regales me with tales of her youth in a small European village where she used to make pastries with her mother.
Each story adds a little thread to the rich tapestry of all the lives gathered in this room, and I feel immersed in sharing the cookies and these moments. I believe that good desserts can bring on good conversation. They draw people together in happiness.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Rhett watching me several times. His gaze is curious. Instead of his usual stoic demeanor, he seems a little softened by the interactions that are unfolding around him. He's not talking to anyone, of course. He’s just quietly observing.
Maybe he's going to use it in the competition somehow. Who knows what that guy is up to? Having him observe me like this is an odd but not unpleasant feeling. Perhaps he's noticing a side of me he hasn't seen before. But what do I care? Inspired by a spark of spontaneity, I approach the activities coordinator who introduced herself to me earlier.
"Do you happen to have any nail polish?" I ask her. "I thought maybe it might be fun to offer some manicures while we're here.”
Her face lights up. "Really? What a wonderful idea. The residents would love that. Let me bring you what we have."
Soon I settle at a small table with a rainbow array of nail polishes spread out before me. A line forms, mostly women, but a few men chuckle and join in the fun, requesting a clear polish or just enjoying the activity. To my surprise, Rhett approaches me with a bottle of pink polish in his hand.
"Need help?" he asks, and I can't help but laugh.
"Really? You would do this? I don't know whether to be amused or impressed."
He shrugs, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his normally straight mouth. "Why not? It might be good for my dexterity," he says, moving his fingers around.
I nod, and he walks over to a table nearby and takes a chair, pulling it up beside me to share the same small table. We handle two people at a time, and to my surprise, Rhett is pretty good at painting fingernails.
“What made you think of doing this, Sunny?”
I let him call me that at this point because it could be worse. When the guy you hated in school gives you a nickname, it could be something terrible. Sunny isn’t so bad.
“When I was in the fifth grade, I volunteered at our local nursing home. I’ll never forget the place. It was so sad and dreary and smelled of orange and lemon cleaning liquid. The people there looked left behind, you know? Like someone just dropped them off one day and never came back. Anyway, my teacher said she’d give us extra credit if we volunteered one day a week at that place. Most of the kids went once and then decided they didn’t need extra credit that bad. I ended up going three days a week. I’d eat with them, listen to their stories, and paint the ladies’ nails. I guess I’ve always been way too sensitive and empathetic.”
“I’m impressed,” he says quietly.
“Why?”
“Most kids wouldn’t give up their extra time to spend it with elderly strangers in a nursing home. I know I wouldn’t have.”
I laugh under my breath. “Well, if you knew how I was raised and what was happening at home, you would’ve wanted to escape, too,” I say the words before I can think about them. Rhett doesn’t need to know about my personal life. He’ll somehow use it against me.
“I want that color!” the woman in front of Rhett suddenly says loudly, like she’s purposely trying to get his attention. When he looks at her, she bats her lashes. I want to laugh but somehow keep myself from doing it.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, glancing at me and smiling. It’s actually a very nice smile. He should do it more often.
"So, where did you get these skills?" I ask him as he paints the nails of a woman whose hair is pulled up into a tight white bun on top of her head. She looks like she could have been a ballerina in another life.
"I used to do this for my grandmother when she was in a place like this. I was just a teenager back then, but I was pretty good at it. I like to think it's one of the reasons why I'm so detailed in my work."
I smile and continue working on the woman in front of me. She has bright orange hair that is obviously dyed and is wearing some of the most obnoxiously loud jewelry I've ever seen. She's quite a character.