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Authors: Maddie Cochere
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cooking contests, and I enter them all over the state. I actually enter a lot of different kinds of contests. There’s good money to be made.”
Craig was right about that. Darby had an opportunity to win $10,000 in his category, and $100,000 if his cake was deemed the Grand Prize Winner overall.
“Do you enter contests for a living?” I asked.
“Just about,” he replied. “I’m a starving artist. I paint for a living, but I enter sweepstakes and contests all the time, and I’ve been able to supplement my income with them. When I win prizes that aren’t money, I sell them on Craigslist or eBay.”
“What kind of painting do you do?” Darby asked.
“I call it Nettling,” he said with a huge smile. “It’s a new style with oils that I developed myself, so I named it. Think pointillism, but with a tiny stroke or swirl rather than a point.” He pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to me. “I have my first show Sunday evening at the Shaw Gallery over on Rush Street. You guys should come. I’ll leave your names at the front desk, and,” he looked directly at me before saying, “I’ll be sure to have your name listed as Susan Raines.”
He was really quite likable, and I had to smile.
“Thank you,” I told him. “We could probably do that, don’t you think?” I asked Darby. “We’re not scheduled to fly out until Monday morning, and this will give us something to do Sunday night after sightseeing during the day.”
Darby was nodding his head and smiling. “I think that’s a great idea,” he said.
“Super,” Craig said with a big grin. “I’ll be sure to add you to the list of my guests, and if you see something you like, everything will be for sale.” He paused and looked around. “Hey, were you headed for the food? I’m a starving artist, and I plan on filling up here. Shall we?”
He didn’t have to ask twice, and we made our way to the tables of food. We were in the same hall where the cooking contest would be held, but we were at the opposite end. The stations were visible, but the track lighting above them was turned off, and it was obvious the area wasn’t intended for use this evening.
There were easily three hundred people in attendance, and there were lines on both sides of the hors d'o euvres tables. I stood in line behind a tall, thin woman with long, bleach-blonde, crimped hair. She turned to smile at us, and I noticed the number on her tag was number seventy-eight. That meant her station was to the left of Darby and directly across from Craig.
We introduced ourselves and found out that she was Delma Snider from Wyoming, and she was baking a Coconut Rum Cake. When she said everyone back home calls her Dee, and we should call her that, too, I started giggling. I was just about to ask her about heavy metal music, but fearing I might start laughing again, Darby moved me to stand behind him and ordered me to talk with Craig while he continued to chat with Dee.
Still giggling, I asked Craig, “What’s with the pink shoelaces?”
“I love shoelaces,” he said. “They give your shoes personality. When I was a kid, one of our teachers took us on a tour of a shoelace factory, and I knew I could never wear white laces again. I’ve been wearing yellow for a while, but I switched to pink this week for good luck in the contest.”
“I love pink laces,” I told him. “I play racquetball, and I almost always wear pink laces in my shoes.”
“I tried racquetball once,” he said. “My opponent hit me with the ball. Wow, was that painful. Then I fell and sprained my ankle, and I was on crutches for a week. I never tried it again.”
I smiled. He wasn’t the only first-time player to give up right away. “Why are pink laces good luck for you this week?” I asked.
“I’m making a Pink Squirrel Cake,” he said. “The pink laces will give me good mojo.”
“Pink Squirrel?” I asked. “Like the old fashioned drink?”
“Yep,” he said smiling. “It has
Craig was right about that. Darby had an opportunity to win $10,000 in his category, and $100,000 if his cake was deemed the Grand Prize Winner overall.
“Do you enter contests for a living?” I asked.
“Just about,” he replied. “I’m a starving artist. I paint for a living, but I enter sweepstakes and contests all the time, and I’ve been able to supplement my income with them. When I win prizes that aren’t money, I sell them on Craigslist or eBay.”
“What kind of painting do you do?” Darby asked.
“I call it Nettling,” he said with a huge smile. “It’s a new style with oils that I developed myself, so I named it. Think pointillism, but with a tiny stroke or swirl rather than a point.” He pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to me. “I have my first show Sunday evening at the Shaw Gallery over on Rush Street. You guys should come. I’ll leave your names at the front desk, and,” he looked directly at me before saying, “I’ll be sure to have your name listed as Susan Raines.”
He was really quite likable, and I had to smile.
“Thank you,” I told him. “We could probably do that, don’t you think?” I asked Darby. “We’re not scheduled to fly out until Monday morning, and this will give us something to do Sunday night after sightseeing during the day.”
Darby was nodding his head and smiling. “I think that’s a great idea,” he said.
“Super,” Craig said with a big grin. “I’ll be sure to add you to the list of my guests, and if you see something you like, everything will be for sale.” He paused and looked around. “Hey, were you headed for the food? I’m a starving artist, and I plan on filling up here. Shall we?”
He didn’t have to ask twice, and we made our way to the tables of food. We were in the same hall where the cooking contest would be held, but we were at the opposite end. The stations were visible, but the track lighting above them was turned off, and it was obvious the area wasn’t intended for use this evening.
There were easily three hundred people in attendance, and there were lines on both sides of the hors d'o euvres tables. I stood in line behind a tall, thin woman with long, bleach-blonde, crimped hair. She turned to smile at us, and I noticed the number on her tag was number seventy-eight. That meant her station was to the left of Darby and directly across from Craig.
We introduced ourselves and found out that she was Delma Snider from Wyoming, and she was baking a Coconut Rum Cake. When she said everyone back home calls her Dee, and we should call her that, too, I started giggling. I was just about to ask her about heavy metal music, but fearing I might start laughing again, Darby moved me to stand behind him and ordered me to talk with Craig while he continued to chat with Dee.
Still giggling, I asked Craig, “What’s with the pink shoelaces?”
“I love shoelaces,” he said. “They give your shoes personality. When I was a kid, one of our teachers took us on a tour of a shoelace factory, and I knew I could never wear white laces again. I’ve been wearing yellow for a while, but I switched to pink this week for good luck in the contest.”
“I love pink laces,” I told him. “I play racquetball, and I almost always wear pink laces in my shoes.”
“I tried racquetball once,” he said. “My opponent hit me with the ball. Wow, was that painful. Then I fell and sprained my ankle, and I was on crutches for a week. I never tried it again.”
I smiled. He wasn’t the only first-time player to give up right away. “Why are pink laces good luck for you this week?” I asked.
“I’m making a Pink Squirrel Cake,” he said. “The pink laces will give me good mojo.”
“Pink Squirrel?” I asked. “Like the old fashioned drink?”
“Yep,” he said smiling. “It has
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