Turbo Pudding

Twelve NeighborsFriday pudding

What to eat at the Harvest Festival

· The Turbo Pudding team · 5 min read

Brenda Kowalski, an older woman with a tall cream-colored beehive held by a hairpin, gold hoop earrings, a white scarf and a bright pink cardigan, smiles with her eyes closed and a hand on her chest on the festival square, in front of the red-brick Lark County courthouse and its white clock tower hung with colorful bunting; behind her stand the chili cook-off stand, a striped tent with a big TAMALES sign and a steaming pot, the cider and donuts stand, an American flag, red and gold autumn trees, a red tractor pulling children on a hay wagon, stacked hay bales, pumpkins and two pots of mums

Saturday in Harrow means the Lark County Harvest Festival. It takes over the courthouse square “the way it has since before the courthouse had a clock”: cider and donuts, a chili cook-off and hay bales on every corner, “like the corn exploded.” The festival comes in chapter 3 of Twelve Neighbors, and there’s no court that day. It’s Friday, so here’s a menu for the day, stand by stand, with no spoilers.

The picture at the top is Brenda Kowalski on the festival square, a moment after she’s had a word with somebody’s pie. Behind her are the chili cook-off, the tamales tent and the hayride tractor.

Two pies, one for emergencies

The day starts with the family chat. Mom has instructions: “Festival today. Take your brother. He has money for ONE funnel cake.” Your little brother Easton types in lowercase and never uses a period: “i have money for three funnel cakes.” He’s also wearing his Juror 7½ sticker. Mom says he is not. Easton says he already is.

Grandma Dot texts in capitals and signs every message “This is Grandma Dot.” She takes Easton’s side on the sticker, then shares her news: she made two cherry pies, “one for the contest” and “one for emergencies.” Mom wants to know what kind of emergency needs a pie. Dot’s answer: “You’ll know it when you see it.”

A phone fills the middle of a warm yellow kitchen with green cabinets, a window looking out on a water tower marked HARROW and a stove clock reading 8:00; on the screen is a family chat called Novaks, where Easton writes in lowercase that he has money for three funnel cakes and is wearing his juror 7 1/2 sticker, Mom answers “You are not,” and Grandma Dot replies in capital letters about two cherry pies, one for the contest and one for emergencies, signing each message “This is Grandma Dot”; a mug of coffee steams on the table
Searched “visual novel with grandma texts.” She signs every one.

The bake sale table

At the bake sale, the prosecutor sets down a pie under a plastic dome, with the price sticker still on it. Then she sees the jurors’ table and walks off fast, because lawyers aren’t allowed to talk to jurors. Not even about pie.

Brenda, who does hair at Bless Your Hair, has three ways of saying “bless your heart.” This is the second one, “the one that leaves a mark,” said straight to the pie: “Store-bought? Well, bless your heart.” She says it loud enough to reach the back of a prosecutor.

Tammy, another neighbor from the jury box, announces to the whole square: “I brought three casseroles. One is for evidence.” Then she hands you a paper plate like it’s a subpoena. Ray the bailiff has a friendly reminder for the jurors: you may not discuss the case, but you may discuss funnel cake. “I’ll be discussing funnel cake. At length.”

The chili cook-off

Kaylee, a juror with a three-year-old named Hazel, has news: chili sign-ups close at two, and Hazel wants to watch somebody lose. That gives you a choice.

One way, you decide this is the emergency. You write CHERRY PIE in the box marked CHILI, in capitals, the way Grandma Dot would. The judges give it an honorable mention and call it “a bold interpretation of the category.” Kaylee’s verdict: “You absolute legend.” The other way, you just eat chili number six, “a mistake I’ll be making again next year.” Kaylee knows why: it’s Travis’s, he puts cinnamon in it and nobody tells him.

At two, Paloma goes live from the courthouse steps, and pielady62 comments on your chili choice. Another viewer, bettyjo44, types in capitals too: “PALOMA HONEY YOUR CAMERA IS SIDEWAYS.”

Two neighbors stand side by side on the festival square in front of the red-brick Lark County courthouse and its white clock tower, under strings of colorful bunting: on the left Kaylee, a young woman with a blond ponytail and a purple hair tie, a lilac top and a mustard scarf, laughs with her eyes squeezed shut and a phone in her hand; on the right Tammy, an older woman with short spiky gray hair, an orange puffer vest and a whistle on a blue lanyard, frowns and points one finger up; behind them are the edge of the chili cook-off stand with numbered pots, the cider and donuts stand, an American flag and red and gold autumn trees
Typed “cozy game chili cook-off.” A pie took honorable mention.

The pie contest

In the evening the pie contest takes over the fairgrounds pavilion, under strings of bulbs older than Grandma Dot’s oven. Nine pies sit on a long table with number cards, and everybody knows whose is whose. The judge, every year since before you were born, is Coach Gentry, in his Owls jacket, with his whistle. His report: “Folks, I’ve tasted nine pies, and I’d like to lie down.”

Grandma Dot’s cherry takes second place. She takes the ribbon like a parking ticket, and she’ll be furious till spring. The blue ribbon goes to a pecan, and Dot sums up the evening: “Pecan. In a cherry year.” Tell her it’s just a pie contest, and she corrects you: “It’s a pecan contest, baby. Nobody told the cherries.”

Inside a wooden fairgrounds pavilion strung with warm glowing bulbs, three people stand in front of a long table of numbered pies under a banner reading Lark County Harvest Festival Pie Contest: on the left Grandma Dot, a small elderly woman with white hair, reading glasses pushed up on her head and a red sweater with three autumn leaves, looks unimpressed; next to her stands Juror Seven, a young woman with long brown hair, a mustard knit beanie, a tweed jacket and a plaid shirt; on the right Coach Gentry, in a maroon cap with a gold L and a maroon jacket with a JUDGE tag and a whistle, smiles and holds up a blue first-place rosette, with the backs of the crowd’s heads along the bottom
Search history: “pie contest game,” “why does grandma hate pecan.”

The tamales tent

The tamales tent smells like the back kitchen at Hoff’s on a Saturday, and it should. It’s the same cook, thirty-eight years running: Miss Espe, Paloma’s grandmother. She sits you down with her house rule: “Mija. Sit. Eat first. Then cry.” You tell her you’re not crying. “Not yet. Eat.”

Two pork tamales come in a paper boat. When you reach for your wallet, she slaps your hand: “Russ paga.” Russ is the man on trial, though, and you’re on his jury, so Russ can’t buy you lunch. Miss Espe fixes that on the spot: “Then I buy. Russ pays me. It goes around.”

Behind you in line, in a gray cardigan and holding her own mug, is Judge Whitlock: “Seven. I’m off duty. So are you. Act like it.” Her usual is “two pork, one sweet,” and what you’re having is none of her business. You can let Miss Espe pay, or fold six dollars under the paper boat. Miss Espe will find it and be offended till Christmas.

Esperanza, a small elderly woman with round gold glasses, a red knit cap, an orange top and a white apron with a name badge reading ESPERANZA, smiles with her eyes closed and one hand on her hip in front of the tamales tent, where a big steaming pot stands on a stand; behind her rise the Lark County courthouse and its clock tower under bunting, with the chili cook-off stand and its nine numbered pots on the left, children sitting on hay bales on the hayride wagon in front of it, and the cider and donuts stand with pumpkins on the right
“Small town visual novel food.” Eat first, then cry.

Chapters 1–3 of Twelve Neighbors, the whole Harvest Festival included, are free to play in your browser at twelveneighbors.com. The full game is $9.99, paid once. More about the game is on its Twelve Neighbors page.

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