The Big Deborah Baking Challenge
By: Jyll Thomas
Tags: Nostalgia, Friendship, Humor, Baking, Dessert

This is my recreation of a Little Debbie Swiss Roll

The Big Deborah Baking Challenge

The Great British Baking Show rekindled my love and obsession for baking. It’s a fantastic TV show where even the judges are helpful and kindly explain why the contestant is not going to advance to the next level. They’re almost apologetic when someone’s chocolate soufflé falls flat. This contrasts with the essential nature of baking which is critical and judgmental. Whisk whipped cream in a warm bowl instead of a cold one and you’ll end up with a soggy, unforgiving mess. Seeing a group of people act like decent, supportive human beings when faced with certain failure gave me the inspiration to bake again.

Mary Berry, one of the hosts of The Great British Baking Show, published a baking book. I bought it and vowed to bake my way through her recipes a la Julie and Julia. I made it through two recipes and then became intimidated by ingredients like caster sugar and treacle and what is a sultana anyways?

It felt like I failed The Great British Baking Show without baking a single cookie. A few days later at work, one of my naturally skinny coworkers (yes, I hate him) was eating a Little Debbie Swiss Roll. Like a flash of lightening, I realized my error. I needed to embrace my American white trash heritage and recreate Little Debbie snack cakes. Thus, the Big Deborah Baking Challenge was born!

Swiss Rolls were the first Little Debbie snack cake I tried. We didn’t have sweets like that in our house when I was a child. Everyone was supposed to be dieting and the only sugary foods my mom stocked were sherbet ice cream (gross) and Ayds candies. When I got to high school two really great things happened, I discovered Little Debbie cakes and met the coolest girl in the world.

Inside the cafeteria was a kiosk where a large woman who had more facial warts than teeth sold Little Debbie cakes for about fifty cents a package. This and a Coke from the vending machine next to the smoker’s courtyard was my lunch. Yes, schools used to be concerned with a student’s overall well being by providing a place to smoke cigarettes, eat French fries with ranch dressing and wash it all down with a highly caffeinated beverage.

The proper way to eat a Swiss Roll can be as divisive as how one chooses to eat an Oreo. I like to peel all the chocolate coating off and eat it first, except for the ends where the chocolate is thicker. Then, bite into the naked cake and cream swirl. I also like to unscrew Oreos, eat the cream and throw the cookie away. Fight me.

At the same time that I ate my first Little Debbie Swiss Roll, I became close friends with Pam. She recently moved to Ft. Myers from Ohio and was a combination of Joan Jett and Phyllis Diller. Pam wore her blond hair in a Mohawk/ mullet hybrid; numerous large earrings hung from her ears like Christmas tree ornaments. She wore pointy-toed, black witch shoes and thrift store dresses. Pam looked like a Goth baby doll with huge, blue eyes etched with thick, black eyeliner. She was thin as a crack in the ice with a stiletto sharp sense of humor to match.

One afternoon, I was sitting outside the cafeteria doors eating my Swiss Roll and Coke lunch selling flowers to raise money for French Club. I wasn’t a very good salesperson as I was painfully shy. I sat silently clutching wilted, red and white carnations hoping someone would randomly buy one without me having to interact with them. And then Pam strolled up.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

“Not so good. No one’s buying flowers from me.”

“Let me help you out,” she said and grabbed a few stems.

“Wanna buy a carnation for French Club? Only one dollar,” she batted her lashes at a student on their way to lunch. “No? Eat me, for two.”

The student gave her a confused look and rushed past us.

“That’s brilliant,” I told her. We spent the next couple of minutes giggling as we offered flowers or sexual favors for a few bucks. We didn’t sell either but we had a fun time watching people nervously avert their gaze and quickly walk away from us.

As I took the last bite of my Swiss Roll, one of the football players sauntered over to Pam and I.

“What are you freaks doing?” he snarled.

“We’re selling flowers for French club. They’re only one dollar, do you want to buy one?” Pam said in her sweetest voice setting me up for the punch line.

“Fuck you, freaks,” he said.

“Does that mean no?” I pretended to be hurt. “How about suck my dick for two?”

Before he could conjure up another monosyllabic insult, Mr. Weathertwit (not his real name), the school security guard walked by.

“Young lady, what did you say?”

“She told me to suck her dick,” the football player said.

“Thanks, dude, you’re fucking helpful,” I muttered and rolled my eyes.

Without another word, Weathertwit, wrote on his detention slip pad, peeled it off and handed it to me like an invite to an exclusive party.

“See you after school,” he glared at us.

“I’ll be there with bells on,” I said as Weathertwit and the football player stalked off.

“I should’ve asked if he wanted to buy a flower,” Pam smiled.