The Secret Baker

Inspired by the Great British Baking Show

As she watched the big, white tent rising before her, Mabel wondered if her dreams were too big. How could a tiny baker, smaller than a scone, ever compete in such a big world?

“Every year, when the people arrive and raise the tent,” Ernestine said to Mabel, “it’s like a carnival, but with more wonderful smells.” Bunnies such as Ernestine had a very keen sense of smell.

Mabel agreed, her mouse tail twitching with excitement. “There is nothing more magnificent,” she said, her voice full of awe. “Makes me want to bake even more.”

The two friends stood together in the meadow, arm-in-arm, watching the spectacle. Every year, on the outskirts of Kirkwood Park, the grounds of Parkmoor Hall came alive, home to the biggest baking competition on TV.

Ernestine broke the friends’ reverie. “You’re such a wonderful baker, Mabel. The lavender-lemon drizzle cake you made for Ella’s tea party was the best I’ve ever tasted.”

Mabel blushed. “I’m glad you enjoyed it, Ernestine. It’s my pleasure to make lovely things for my friends.” She knew her dear friend understood; Ernestine’s love was stitched into every handmade gift she gave.

“I’ve always dreamed of entering that big tent,” Mabel said, settling onto the warm stone wall, “to bake something magnificent and place it before the judge. But…” her voice trailed off as she looked toward the tent, whiskers low. “I fear my dreams are too big.”

Ernestine, sitting down next to her, was astonished. “I had no idea you dreamed of competing inside the tent! You should! You’re as good as any baker I’ve seen.”

“But you’ve never seen a baker like me,” Mabel said softly. “Small. With fur.”

“Well, that’s true,” Ernestine replied. “Is there a rule that says a mouse can’t compete?”

“No one ever thought there needed to be a rule,” Mabel said, matter-of-factly. “It never crossed people’s minds that it was even possible.”

Mabel and Ernestine thought about this for a moment. She didn’t want to discourage her dear friend, but Ernestine knew there was truth to what Mabel was saying. They had both experienced times when they were underestimated because of how they appeared.

Ernestine had an idea. “Mabel, I think you’re the one to show the world what’s possible. You might speak for more than just mice. What if you shared your baking in a way that got their attention? Or…is winning the competition what matters most to you?”

Mabel thought deeply, then replied, “No. Winning isn’t important. I just want to do what I love, to express myself through baking. But baking for myself only goes so far. I need to feel like I’m baking something special, meant for someone else to enjoy.”

“That’s it, then. This year, things will be different. Bake something beautiful and let’s leave it for the judge to discover. Show her what you can do. If it’s truly about the art of baking, your talent will matter more than your size.”

Mabel looked at Ernestine with wide eyes. “You think I should leave my baking on the judge’s table? What if she doesn’t like it? What if she finds out I’m a mouse and rejects me?”

Ernestine put her arm gently around her friend. “Honey, you’ll never know unless you try. And I’ll help you. Make something you’re proud of, and we’ll slip it in when no one’s watching. We’ll leave it for the judge to find when she comes in the next morning.”

Mabel considered this possibility. Maybe if they didn’t know she was a mouse, they’d judge the baking on merit alone.

Ernestine leaned in and whispered in her ear, “What’s the worst that could happen? If they don’t like it, no one will know it was you. And your friends will still love your baking, no matter what the judge thinks.”

And so, Mabel and Ernestine hatched the plan. Mabel hugged her co-conspirator, scurried down from the wall, and hurried home. The tent was up. Her oven was calling. She had work to do.

As morning light settled over Kirkwood Park, Mabel stepped into her kitchen, feeling a little dizzy. Excited, yes, but also unsure. Was she really going to bake for the judge in the tent?

She imagined the moment—the judge discovering her plate, taking the first bite. Then came the possibilities: first the best-case scenario, then the worst.

Shaking off the daydream, Mabel knew she needed to focus. She grounded herself by performing her normal rituals: putting on her apron, collecting necessary utensils. She pulled down her favorite bowl, a beautiful piece of crockery passed down through generations in her family. She lovingly leafed through the dog-eared book of recipes she had been collecting for years until she found just the right one.

As she began to gather ingredients from the cupboards, Mabel heard a soft knock at her front door. “Who could be stopping by this early in the day?” she wondered aloud. When she opened the door, no one was there. But, looking down, she saw a basket, covered with a softly embroidered linen cloth. “Ernestine!” Mabel whispered.

There was a note attached to the handle: “My dearest Mabel, here are some fresh herbs from my garden, along with some edible violets and roses. I hope this helps you with your bake today. Love, Ernestine.”

Mabel was touched by the thoughtful gift. She took the basket back into the kitchen. Suddenly, there was another rap on her door. Again, when she looked, no one was there. But in a pretty blue and white bowl were a dozen brown and blue eggs. “Fresh from my Araucana and Rhode Island Red hens this morning,” the note read. “Good luck on your endeavor! Best, Lady Sarah.”

Throughout the next several hours, other friends left gifts at Mabel’s door. Odette had left special chocolates she had purchased in France. Wattson gave Mabel a rich, creamy square of butter he’d made with his steam-powered churn. Otis provided fresh flour, soft and fine, personally ground from his own fields. Others had brought fruit and berries from nearby orchards. Such kindness! How wonderful to have the support of her friends on this important day!

Appreciation welled up, and Mabel’s eyes filled with tears. She knew she had Ernestine to thank for this generous outpouring of love. The sweet bunny had made sure others knew of their secret plan and thought a show of support would bolster Mabel’s courage to proceed.

And so Mabel began to bake. She took her time, handled the precious ingredients with great care, each sacred. She sifted the flour with reverence. Her motions were gentle and loving. She measured everything twice, just to be sure, and taste-tested along the way.

As she slid the tin into the oven, the kitchen filled with a scent that wrapped around her like a warm shawl. She stood before the oven, paws clasped, whispering encouragement to the rising sponge.

She apologized to the bakes that didn’t turn out quite right and thanked the sponge that had come out perfectly. When she finished, the tears came again. It was the best she could offer, made with the finest ingredients. She hoped it would be enough.

After midnight, Mabel tiptoed in hushed silence toward Parkmoor Hall. The grass was cool beneath her paws. The great white tent glowed in the moonlight, rising before her like an enormous ship about to take sail. She stopped in her tracks, struck by the imposing sight, but bravely lifted the edge of the tent’s flap and stepped inside, awe-struck. Standing on her tiptoes, barely reaching the table’s edge, she carefully slid the beautiful plate across the judge’s checkered tablecloth.

Mabel quietly crept from the tent. When she was sure she hadn’t been seen, she turned and ran all the way home, her breath catching with every step, her heartbeat ringing in her ears.

She had done it.

Mabel had entered the competition.

She had left a piece of her heart inside the tent.

In the hush of morning, mist curled low around the chrysanthemums in Kirkwood Park, as a tall, stately woman stepped into the great tent at Parkmoor Hall. Ms. Antoinette, the world-renowned chef and judge, arrived early to prepare for the first day of competition. She had nearly passed the judging table when she halted, mid-step.

A tiny, delicate cake sat near the edge. Beside it, a note:

“For Your Consideration – M.”

She tilted her head slightly, intrigued. “Do any of you know who left this for me?” she asked the crew as they gathered. No one did.
 
The cake was exquisitely decorated, each delicate swirl of icing piped as fine as a thread. Ms. Antoinette took a small bite and gasped. The layers were impossibly thin. The texture was perfection. And the taste! Flavors she’d never experienced in all her years, a combination she had never imagined.

“Whoever baked this,” Ms. Antoinette said, astonished, “is a master.”

Just outside the tent, Ernestine overheard Ms. Antoinette and scurried to find Mabel. Bursting through Mabel’s front door, the bunny exclaimed, “Ms. Antoinette loved it!” She and Mabel squealed in delight, clasping paws and dancing in circles around the kitchen.

“You must bake again,” insisted Ernestine. “Next week is Cookie Week!”

And so, week after week, Mabel baked in secret. Each week, she left her entry on the judging table with the same polite note. And each week, the judge’s appreciation of the baker’s talent grew, as did her determination to uncover the identity of the Secret Baker.

After Week Four, Ms. Antoinette had an idea. She asked the show’s producers to install a hidden camera overnight.

The next morning, everyone gathered around to watch the footage.

There, on the screen, was a mouse.

Small, wearing a darling little dress and cape, carefully sliding a fruit tart into place on the table. She adjusted the note with both paws before vanishing from view.

The show’s crew sat in stunned silence.

Ms. Antoinette rose with conviction. “I would like to hold a press conference,” she said, with a hint of a smile. “This afternoon.”
 
Standing in front of the podium, Ms. Antoinette spoke with excitement to the gathered crowd. “For weeks,” she began, “someone has been secretly submitting baking entries. Although not technically part of the baking competition, this baker has shown a level of expertise and precision above all other contestants, unmatched in detail, technique, and taste. Today, I wish to honor that brilliance with a special award. If the baker is present, I invite them to step forward.”

Hidden in a shadowed corner of the tent, Mabel’s heart began to pound in her tiny chest. As her legs wobbled and her whiskers trembled, she made her way to the judging table and climbed up next to Ms. Antoinette.

The crowd gasped.

A mouse?

Unfazed, Ms. Antoinette simply smiled and warmly greeted Mabel, instantly recognizing the Secret Baker. Photographers surged. The judge gently offered the wide-eyed mouse a crystal mixing bowl, delicately engraved with two words: Star Baker.

Applause broke out like thunder. For Mabel, yes. But also for Ms. Antoinette’s grace and generosity. And for the quiet beauty of a story no one could have expected.

One year later…

Mabel took a small bite of the pavlova and glanced toward Ms. Antoinette. Across the table stood the young contestant who had presented the dessert, Martin, blushing furiously.

“This is beautiful,” Ms. Antoinette said to Martin. “Mabel and I both agree.”

The two judges nodded in unison as Ms. Antoinette reached out to shake Martin’s hand.

Around them, the other baking contestants in the competition – young and old, male and female, people and furry creatures alike – began to applaud the young hedgehog.

Martin beamed with delight.