Give a Fig

FICTION Give a Fig Shelba Cole Robison Ripping open the box lid, Leona plucked the cut glass from its tissue paper nest and signed deeply. The new cake plate was perfect for the contest. This year she needed a gimmick because Dorthus, her only serious baking competitor, was smart and getting smarter. Now all she had to do was slide her coconut marshmallow fluff atop the pedestal and it would look as fine as one of Queen Elizabeth's crowns. Dorthus really had an unfair advantage—why, she'd even studied home economics for two years at Lafayette Women's College. Not only did she cook well, she figured out clever angles—like her last year's contest entry, Seven-Up Cake. Pastor Beezer loved its catchy name, even if, in Leona's humble opinion, the cake turned out coarsely textured . Besides, Dorthus merely substituted Seven-Up for the milk in The Joy of Cooking's standard yellow cake recipe. Leona also found bottlecap decorations downright tacky. You couldn't even eat them. Leona's only asset was her raw talent and grit; fortunately, enough of both to capture every first place since the Isle of Hope Methodist women's missionary society contest began nine years ago. But now her talent and grit barely held their own against an almost professional home economist like Dorthus. Leona had to admit—last year her Chocolate and Red Earth entry barely nudged out that Seven-Up Cake. Katie Belle and Imodene told her she should be satisfied with her nine wins. "They've established your reputation . . . step back and let the young ones try their wings now." "Nine's puny. I want a whole decade," Leona told them. Ten wins would permit her to retire because, if the truth be known, she was plumb tired out from all the worrying and cooking. She wouldn't last much Shelba Cole Robison teaches creative writing at Saddleback College in Mission Viejo, California. She has compiled a novel-in-stories, from which we have published "Watch Over Me" (Vol. 17, No. 3, 1989), and "Burdens We Bear" (Vol. 19, No. 1, 1991). 45 longer. Ten wins would mean nobody, not even Dorthus, could equal her record during her lifetime. If Leona could win this year, she'd persuade Hazel, her best friend, to propose a Christian Cooks' Hall of Fame and to nominate Leona Coburn its first member. Public acknowledgment would be nice for a change. Despite her good works, not one person ever mentioned all that driving she did during World War II; nobody applauded the way she single-handedly raised, not only her daughter, but also Katie Belle's two, including ferrying them to piano lessons and recitals, chaperoning at dances and Wesleyan youth events. Only her friend, Hazel, ever understood the cross she had to bear with Imodene, who couldn't do anything unless Leona told her what and how to do it. She could stand a little recognition. Others grumbled that the contest was fixed because no one ever seemed to reach the finals except Leona and Dorthus. But it had never been easy for her—her cakes won because they looked and tasted the best. She worried about this year's entry though. The coconut marshmallow fluff looked pretty, to be sure, and tasted swell. She could just hear those little bitty pieces of coconut tease as if to say, "If you don't taste me you'll be sorry." But was it good enough to win? "It's a specially good cake, but there's nothing unusual about it," Leona bemoaned to Mildred of Mildred's Coiffures for Milady during her regular Saturday morning hair appointment. "I need something that nobody's heard of." "You know, Leona, I think I have just the thing for you." Mildred stopped in the middle of a pin curl. "You ever hear of Scripture Cake?" Leona thought for a moment. "Don't believe I have." "My nephew in Smyrna married a Pentecostal woman. I don't know much about her religion, but she cooks real good. When I visited them last summer she baked this wonderful cake—the ingredients come from Bible verses. With...