Published in On Our Selection News February 6, 2014

Show time baking is serious.

The Show to me always seemed like there were only a few camps – those who showed cattle, those who came to ride the Scrambler and those who came purely for the thrilling privilege of standing around in the fenced area in which over-age persons are able to consume any canned beverage on offer at the bar. In school I was forced to enter some handwriting, but after passing the age of mandatory bottle green culottes, the only thing I’d put in the Pavilion was the rubbish from a dagwood dog into the bin by the open door.

However, a remark from a Show Society member that the same person had won the Fruitcake Challenge every time sparked an idea in the office, and within minutes the idea had swollen with air bubbles to reach the light fluffy texture of enthusiasm. That comment was the baking soda we needed to rise to the challenge.

And with that, I was in. Suddenly, people came out of the shadows and started talking about their show baking. I heard about all the competitive bakers. There are certain people who just manage to nail it every time, so others don’t dare challenge them with their pitiful use of flour. One such person is a father of a primary school classmate, who always seemed nice but clearly had to be feared in the Show baking world. I’ve been told he has his awards pinned to his cubicle wall at work to rub it in the face of another employee. I’d known these people for years, yet this side of them I’d never seen before. Maybe, like closet Christians under Roman rule, they had been drawing a sign in the dirt with their feet as they spoke to me. But being unconverted, I didn’t see the outline of a sponge cake they drew. I had been oblivious to this religion, and those practicing it right under my nose. But now, I was part of the parish, and all of a sudden I started getting texts with fruitcake tips/commandments that had no doubt been passed on for generations.

Like all religion, there is conflict, and religious philosophical discussion that can get ugly. While I wasn’t yet turning over tables in temples, this new convert had already ruffled feathers. I got into a debate with the father of a boy I went to school with, about whether a dessert I ate was a macaron or a whoopie pie. I changed the subject, thinking that it was impressive enough that this farmer knew what a macaron vaguely looked like and should let him have his moment. However upon later reflection of this semi-heated exchange, I realised this came from the man who told me that if you’re going to enter sultana scones you’d better make sure that you’ve got enough sultanas (because if the steward pulls a scone apart and can’t see a trinity of sultanas on each side, you’re not worth the flour you bake with). This was a man who knew his baked goods. And while the whoopie pie movement is a baking fad that will eventually be forgotten, it was still an arm of the baking faith, and should be recognised.

Now I fear reprisal. I worry that I have inexcusably offended the clergy. Most of all, I worry I’ll come home to find dozens of burnt solid fruitcakes that have smashed through my windows with notes telling me “the oven is next”.