DWC Short Story: Enchanted Cakes and Other Romantic Disasters

I should’ve known it’d all go pear-shaped the moment The Great Bake-Off of Little Hogsbottom announced its surprise twist: contestants may not bake alone.

It was all rather suspicious. One minute, it was your average village baking competition—paper doilies, spongy Victoria cakes, the scent of scones wafting into the parish hall rafters—and the next, it was all partners and flair and audience votes.

I wasn’t even in the competition. I was merely “Oliver Witherspoon, local freelance librarian and casual hat enthusiast.” But I had a crush—a rather serious, utterly unreciprocated, borderline ridiculous crush—on Hazel Blythe, the reigning cinnamon roll queen of West Midlands.

Hazel was the sort of woman who smelled like nutmeg and looked like she could conquer France with a spatula and a well-timed wink. She wore a cherry-print apron and once gave me a biscotti when I sneezed near her stall. I was in deep.

Naturally, I volunteered as her surprise partner. “Partner” being generous—I mostly stirred things, weighed sugar, and occasionally dropped eggs. Still, she smiled at me like I was vaguely tolerable, which was enough to keep me coming back.

That is, until Claude turned up.

Claude. His name sounded like the thump of an over-whipped meringue hitting the floor.

He was everything I wasn’t: French-ish, confident, suspiciously tan for February, and prone to wearing scarves indoors. Also, he was in the competition too, partnered with Hazel’s main rival, Fiona Simms, whose gingerbread people looked like they'd just paid off their mortgages.

The trouble started when Hazel’s mixer exploded mid-whisk. Flour everywhere. Butter in her fringe. Our sourdough starter committed seedy suicide.

“Sabotage,” I whispered dramatically. Hazel thought it was just faulty wiring. But I knew. Claude had smirked. Smirked. That was all the proof I needed.

Which is why, in a moment of romantic desperation and poor decision-making, I did the only logical thing: I visited my Aunt Petunia.

Now, Aunt Petunia isn’t your average aunt. She runs a teashop-cum-apothecary that smells like peppermint and mild regret. She also happens to be a witch. Semi-retired, but still potent enough to turn a Tesco bag into a family of argumentative toads.

“A baking competition?” she said, when I explained the whole ordeal. “Darling, magic and sponge cake don’t mix. You’ll end up with sentient scones.”

“I just need something subtle,” I insisted. “Just to give Hazel a little… advantage. Or, rather, to protect her from sabotage. A sort of anti-Claudium spell.”

Petunia pursed her lips, reached into a drawer, and produced a tiny vial of something blue and shimmery. “One drop. Only one. Stir clockwise. No more than a spoonful of emotion.”

“What happens if I stir counter-clockwise?”

“The cake may develop sentience and join the chess club. Or it’ll explode. Hard to say.”

I took the vial, promised I wouldn’t misuse it, and jogged back to the village hall with all the confidence of a man carrying a bottle of illegal enchantment next to some organic flour.

The final round was a “Signature Showstopper”: one dessert, four hours, must reflect your essence. Hazel chose a black forest gateau because, as she put it, “I’m dark, sweet, and a little boozy.”

I, being helpful, prepped the cherry liqueur while subtly pouring in the magical liquid. Stirring clockwise. Only one drop. Definitely not two. Probably.

“Smells… zingy,” Hazel said, inhaling. “Like ambition and regret.”

“Must be the Kirsch,” I muttered.

Things were going swimmingly. Until Claude dropped by.

“Oh là là,” he said, because of course he did. “That cake looks… unstable. You should be careful, Hazel. Too much Kirsch, and poof!”

He made a poofing gesture. I don’t know if I’ve ever hated a man more.

“Why are you even here?” I asked.

“Just checking on the competition. We wouldn’t want any… accidents.”

Hazel rolled her eyes. I, on the other hand, saw red. Metaphorically. Literally, I saw cherries.

And then things got… weird.

Our cake began to hum. Not audibly, mind you. Emotionally. There was a tangible vibe emanating from the sponge layers. It began to rise… and rise… and then shuddered like it was enjoying itself a bit too much.

Hazel noticed. “Is it supposed to… pulse?”

“No idea,” I said, heart pounding. “It’s just really fresh.”

The top layer rotated ever so slightly. The cherries arranged themselves into a smile.

I’d stirred with too much emotion. Possibly panic. Definitely longing.

The cake was alive.

Not, like, Frankenstein alive. But it had presence. And apparently, strong opinions.

When the judges came round, the gateau gave off a gentle aura of vanilla confidence and maternal disappointment. One judge teared up. Another proposed. The third started singing Ave Maria.

Hazel won by unanimous vote. Claude’s lemon tart deflated in embarrassment.

It should’ve ended there.

But of course, Claude confronted me in the parking lot.

“I know what you did,” he said, still wearing that bloody scarf.

“You… sabotaged us?”

He scoffed. “Sabotage? Please. I merely loosened a wire and encouraged an air current. But you… you used magic.”

I tried to play dumb. It wasn’t difficult.

“I saw the shimmer. I felt the vibration. That cake wasn’t yours—it was something else. Something… old.”

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “You think you’ve won? That cake is bonded now. It knows. It remembers.”

“What does it remember?”

Claude shook his head. “Some doors, once buttered, cannot be unbuttered.”

He vanished into the mist. Or possibly just walked behind a Volvo. Either way, he was gone.

That night, the cake refused to be cut.

Hazel tried everything—knives, spoons, a stern talking-to—but it merely vibrated and jiggled like a smug flan. Finally, it floated out the window and disappeared over the village green.

“I swear it winked,” Hazel said.

We stood in stunned silence.

“I might’ve… added something,” I admitted.

She turned to me, hands on hips. “Oliver Witherspoon. Did you enchant my gateau?”

“I thought it would help.”

“You could’ve told me.”

“You wouldn’t have believed me.”

“I probably would’ve. I mean, I live next to your aunt. She once turned my cat into a dustpan.”

“Oh. Right.”

She sighed, then smiled, and took my hand. “You’re an idiot.”

“But a helpful one?”

“The jury’s out.”

We sat on the bench and watched as the magical cake floated across the moon, trailing kirsch-scented stardust like some drunken confectionery UFO.

To this day, the cake occasionally returns for village meetings, floats above the bell tower during holidays, and once ran for Parish Council.

Hazel and I now run a small café together—“Whisked Away”—with enchanted pastries and strictly regulated mixing procedures. She does the baking. I do the talking. And sometimes the stirring. Clockwise only.

As for Claude? He opened a rival shop across town. His éclairs taste like failure.

And every so often, the cake sends him postcards.

Unbuttered, of course.