“Meh. Expected.”
“What are you folks conspiring over here?” Jonathan Scott asks. He comes between us, tosses an arm over both our shoulders, and grins for the camera. There’s an easiness about him, all loose and simpering and almost greasy. Perhaps it’s because he’s too handsome, and this close to him I see it’s not all makeup and lights. Genetics has been kind.
I, on the other hand, cannot figure out the whole television thing. Face this way, keep smiling, eyes toward the camera. I’m certain my face contorts with all manner of odd and unattractive expressions, and I search instead for people in the crowd I know. My father, talking with Seamus. Cecelia and Gretchen. A few loyal customers. I ignore the reporters and the rest who seem only vaguely familiar.
It wasn’t as difficult yesterday when Patrice Olsen sat me in a chair and asked me questions, the footage to be spliced in with the competition to help viewers connect with me—about past jobs, my training, my mother and grandmother, why I opened the bakery. I talked for almost an hour. But the candid aspect is, at best, disconcerting. No wonder Xavier offered to do the kitchen grunt work. Patrice told me this morning not to worry; the show has a fantastic editing team.
“Fess up, you two. What’s your plan?”
“A wild yeast ciabatta,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow. “Competition. I like that.”
Jude returns with the large ceramic bowl and a glass bottle of milk. Xavier disappears to prepare my onions. I take flour, olive oil, and salt from the shelf beneath the tabletop. Jonathan motions to the cameraman. “Tell me what you’re doing,” Jonathan says. He points to the bowl. “What’s this?”
“A buttermilk starter-based dough I made this morning. It’s already been through its first rise.”
“Buttermilk?”
I nod. “It’s one of the starters I like to keep around all the time.”
“How many do you have?”
“Right now, about eight. My five favorites, and then three I’m experimenting with. Oh, and two more cultures I’m developing.”
He whistles. “Impressive.”
“Not really,” I say, smoothing part of the table with olive oil.
“And what are you doing now?”
I’m almost annoyed. I don’t need him hovering, asking questions to which he must already know the answers, and I’m about to tell him so when Patrice Olsen swoops over. “It’s for those watching, here and when the show airs. Be natural, like you’re teaching one of your baking classes. And smile.”
Smile. Right. “Well,” I say, “ciabatta dough is a very wet dough. I don’t want it to stick to the table, but I also don’t want to add any more flour because all the hydration is necessary for good results. So I use olive oil instead.”
I turn the dough out onto the oiled surface; it oozes flat. “If you’ve ever had really good, well-made ciabatta, you’ve seen the large, irregular holes when you’ve sliced it. Bakers call those holes rooms, and the inside part of the bread the crumb.
“One of the most fascinating things about bread, though, is that conventions change. What’s considered good and desirable and well-crafted changes. Texture, color, crust, flavor—every aspect of bread, really—is like fashion, in a sense. Certain things are in style at different periods of time. Now it’s large, irregular rooms. During other times in history, soft, compact crumb was considered premier. It’s bell-bottoms versus skinny jeans.”
Jonathan Scott watches me with an odd, quiet look of—I don’t know—relief, perhaps? As if he’s decided I’m not the bumbling dud I appear at first glance. I try to continue before he can prod me with another idiotic question, but he asks, “What’s the hydration on this?”
“About eighty percent. Maybe a tad more,” I tell him, then remember to look directly into the camera. “The wet dough contributes to these large holes. But you can see how soft and shapeless it is. We want to firm it up without working it too much, so another important part of preparing this bread is a specific stretch-and-fold technique. Jude?”
He gently tugs one side of the dough, forming two corners. I do the same with the other, and we lift and pull together. The mound becomes an almost-rectangle. Jude folds his end into the center and I then blanket my half over it. We turn the dough ninety degrees and stretch again. Another fold. Another turn. We continue the ritual several more times. “You want to be very careful while doing this because you also don’t want to deflate the rise already done by the yeast. It helps to have two people. And now, we let the dough rest for a couple hours.”
The baguettes are almost ready to bake, but otherwise there won’t be much to see for a while. Patrice Olsen explained this to the crowd when they came this morning; now she dismisses them with instructions to return at one this afternoon.
My makeshift Wild Rise family surrounds me. I introduce them all to Jonathan Scott; he engages each of them, speaking a kind word, drawing them in. He tells my father how talented I am, thanks Gretchen for submitting my name to the show, touches Cecelia’s twin French braids and says they’re beautiful, like her. Charisma, I suppose. Or showmanship. I can’t imagine anyone could possibly enjoy being so kind to strangers day in and day out, signing autographs, always aware each person encountered is a potential viewer who has the power to choose a pot with Jonathan Scott’s face on it rather than any of the dozens of other television chefs who stamp their name on cookware.
Seamus hesitates when Jonathan offers his hand, and when he does take it, he only pumps it once before taking one step closer to me.
My father tells me he’s going upstairs for a nap; he hugs me and vanishes. I desperately want to join him, chugging along on three hours of sleep, up so early to finish preparing dough, then makeup and hair with Janska and León, one more preproduction meeting with Patrice Olsen, and forty minutes of nerves while waiting for filming to begin. Gretchen wants to know if I need help with anything, which I don’t. She lingers anyway, her T-shirt more fitted than usual, her skirt shorter, her sandal heels higher, exchanging a few more pleasantries with the good-looking celebrity. If she smiled any bigger, her cheeks would split. Cecelia melts around my legs and waist. “Can we stay with you for a little while, Liesl? Daddy’s gonna take me to McDonald’s for lunch. You can come, but it’s still too soon yet. So there’s no place to go.”
“We can go home,” Seamus says.
“McDonald’s?” Jonathan Scott’s eyes widen in mock horror, and he crouches to Cecelia’s height. “Oh no. I couldn’t let you eat that food. I hear it makes kids lose their front teeth.”
Cecelia giggles, her two missing bottom incisors clearly showing. “It does not. My teeth fell out ’cause I’m seven.”
“I thought you were at least eight.”
“The doctor says I’m tall since my daddy’s tall.”
“That makes sense. You’re one smart kid.”
“I know. I get all Es in school. They mean excellent.”
“All excellents? That calls for a celebration. How about I cook lunch for you, your dad, Liesl, and anyone else here who wants to stay.”
Cecelia puckers her mouth until her lips hide her nostrils. “I don’t know. I really, really like cheeseburgers. And McDonald’s has a PlayPlace.”
“Well,” Jonathan says, sighing, “it’s up to you. But I’ve been told I’m a pretty good cook.”
“Thank you anyway, but I think we’re going to head out for a while,” Seamus says, and Cecelia is relieved she doesn’t have to choose between her charming new friend and the twisty slide with a side order of fries.
Seamus glances in my direction. No, it’s more than a glance. His eyes stay fixed on me; I feel them even as I look elsewhere around the room. A strange, almost protective energy radiates from him, strong enough for me to hear. Ask us to stay. Want us to stay. He won’t push his way through; he will come only if invited, the awkward giant in this delicate land of TV stars and artisan baking.
I’m not certain I want him here.
“I’ll see y
ou both around two, then,” I say. “Have fun.”
“We will,” Cecelia chirps.
Whatever passed between us the other day, in my bedroom with the photograph of my mother, evaporates. Seamus withdraws his attentions, and I am left to wonder if I read him wrong.
Wild Rise Petite Baguette
LIESL’S NOTES :
This wild yeast baguette variation takes approximately two days from start to finish, if the wet starter is active and ready to use. If the starter has been refrigerated and needs to be refreshed, be sure to add that time—usually two or three feeds, about 24 to 36 hours—to the total preparation time.
INGREDIENTS :
400 grams (2 cups) wild yeast starter (page 45, or use your own starter or a commercial starter)
900 grams (7 cups) unbleached white flour, divided (organic, if possible)
35 grams (¼ cup) whole wheat flour (organic, if possible)
450 grams (2 cups) water
18 grams (1 tablespoon) finely ground sea salt
EQUIPMENT :
mixing bowls
spatula or dough scraper
plastic wrap or clean kitchen towels
stand mixer with dough hook (optional)
wooden spoon
olive oil
couche, baguette form, or cotton tea towels
baking or pizza stone
peel
spray bottle of water
DO AHEAD
PREPARING THE FIRM STARTER
In a mixing bowl, combine the active wild yeast starter with 120 grams (1 cup) of white flour and whole wheat flour. Stir well (a tablespoon of water may be added, if necessary), scrape down the sides of the bowl, and cover with plastic wrap. Let the firm starter rest at room temperature for 8 to 10 hours, until it doubles in volume and appears to have bubbles throughout. The consistency of the starter will be more like dough (rather than the batter-like wet starter).
ON BAKING DAY
PREPARING THE BAGUETTE DOUGH
In a large bowl or stand mixer, combine the firm starter and the water, stirring until the firm starter is partially dissolved and the mixture is slightly frothy. Add 120 grams (1 cup) of flour and stir with a spoon until well combined. Add the salt and just enough of the remaining flour to make a stiff ball that can no longer be stirred. Turn out onto a well-floured surface and knead until the dough is firm and smooth, about 15 minutes. Or use a stand mixer with dough hook on low to medium speed for 10 to 12 minutes. The dough is ready when a pinch of dough pulled from the ball springs back quickly.
Shape the dough into a ball and place in a lightly oiled bowl, turning once to coat. Cover with a clean, damp towel or plastic wrap and let ferment for two hours. It will increase about ¼ in volume.
DIVIDE AND SHAPE
After 2 hours, turn out the dough to a lightly floured surface. Knead briefly and then cut into 6 equal pieces. Shape each piece into a small, tight ball and cover with a damp towel or plastic wrap for 30 minutes. After the half hour has passed, shape each ball into a baguette. To do this, flatten the ball of dough with the heel of the hand and stretch a little, until it resembles an oval. Fold the top edge of the dough one-third of the way down and seal with the side of the hand. Then fold the bottom edge one-third of the way up and seal—like folding a business letter so it fits in an envelope. Use the side of your hand to crease the dough down the center and fold in half. Again, seal the edge, creating a taut, smooth log shape. Sprinkle the work surface with a small amount of additional flour and gently press and roll your dough into the long baguette form, starting with hands in the center of the log and moving outward, until the loaf is as long as your bread pan or couche—usually 12 to 15 inches (be sure the baguettes will fit on the baking stone). Transfer the baguette, seam side up, to a well-floured couche or baguette form. If using the couche, bunch the cloth around the dough so it will help hold the dough’s shape. Cover with plastic wrap or a damp cloth and let proof for 2 hours, until the baguettes double in size; a slight indentation will remain when the dough is lightly pressed.
BAKE
Preheat the oven to 450 degrees Fahrenheit. Position the oven rack with baking stone in the center of the oven. Very carefully roll the baguettes from the couche to a lightly floured peel or parchment paper; the loaves will be seam side down now. Score the dough, making ¼- to ½-inch cuts along the length of the loaf. Slide the loaves onto the baking stone. Spray the inner walls of the oven with cold water from the spray bottle until steam has filled the oven. Close the door, wait 3 minutes, and repeat. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes, until the loaves are golden brown and the crust is firm. Check doneness by tapping the bottom of the loaf; if it sounds hollow, it is finished baking. If not, bake for 5 more minutes. Cool baguettes on a wire rack.
Because baguettes have a nearly even crust-to-crumb ratio, they stale very quickly. If the loaves will not be eaten within 24 to 36 hours, freezing them is a good way to preserve their freshness. Wrap cooled loaves in plastic wrap and then aluminum foil, and store in the freezer until needed. To reheat, place thawed baguettes in a 350-degree-Fahrenheit oven for 15 minutes.
The baguettes are ready to bake.
With the tenderness of battlefield nurses carrying the stretcher of a dying soldier, Xavier and Jude move my loaves into the kitchen. Jonathan Scott and his assistants follow with his own dough. The oven is ready. Xavier transfers my baguettes to a cornmeal-covered peel, and I slash each one before he slides them onto the hot bricks to bake. He hands the peel to Jonathan. “Your turn.”
“Thanks,” the chef says, and expertly adds his loaves next to mine.
And we watch, silent, the heat from the oven uncomfortable and yet welcome. The crust browns, a Maillard reaction between sugar and amino acids, and for me the magic of bread only increases as it becomes less mysterious and more understood, the complex scientific reasons for color and flavor so . . . so . . .
“Beautiful,” Jonathan says.
He speaks of the baguettes, now ready to be taken from the oven, not the thoughts rattling around my head. But either way the word fits. Xavier removes all the loaves, slipping mine into the basket Jude holds and the others into a basket for Jonathan. “There you are.”
“We better not get these mixed up,” Jonathan says, and his assistant takes his baguettes to his work space in the other room.
Jude tucks mine onto the counter. “Not possible.”
“Loyalty. I like it,” Jonathan says. “Now, do I get to see your famous starters?”
“There’s not much to see. A bunch of gallon-sized buckets,” I tell him, but drift toward the cooler. He follows, as does Gretchen, a bit too close. “And they’re certainly not famous.”
He whistles, sharp and low. “Which is which?”
Each lid is labeled, but like a parent of multiples, I know them by sight. My regulars first. A hand-ground Desem starter tied in linen, the buttermilk starter, a white flour barm, a pure rye, and then my mother’s—my grandmother’s, my great-grandmother’s—culture. Two of them. I keep one in a bucket to feed and use. The other is tucked in the topmost, backmost corner of the cooler, in the small stoneware crock in which Oma carried it from Germany. I feed and divide that one too, but rarely bake with it—and never bread I sell.
And then the ones I’m playing with now, a spelt-based starter, a wheat and barley mix, and one with both flour and potato.
“Do you use the same build method for all of them?” Jonathan asks.
“No. I know conventional wisdom is to find something that works and stick with it, but, honestly, I get a little bored.”
He nods to two other cultures on the counter, still developing. “And you don’t use a proofing box?”
I shake my head.
“Living on the edge,” he says with a laugh.
“Maybe just a little old-fashioned,” I tell him.
“Did your mother experiment as well?”
“No.”
The direct, flat answer catches him off guard, and he withdraw
s, not visibly, but sensing he’s crossed some line I’ve sketched around myself. The question doesn’t necessarily bother me, but I don’t want it today because it only brings distance between her and me. I want to be like her when it comes to bread, and in most ways we’re identical. I don’t consider whether the similarities are there because we are the same in substance, because she taught me and that’s what I know first, or because I won’t deviate from her ways for fear of forgetting.
I am different, though, when it comes to sourdough. My mother loved to bake with wild yeast; more than half her loaves used Oma’s starter. But she never considered making her own culture, or that any other was needed besides the one in the crock in her refrigerator. I made my first starter at fifteen and fell in love with the unpredictability of it. The yeast is wild, the process is wild. It changes minute by minute. It’s observable; even years later I can’t help but peek at the jar on my counter every hour or two, watching bubbles expand and measuring the slurry of flour and water as it creeps up the sides. All the things I can’t seem to do with dough—the improvisation, the eyeballing of ingredients, the freedom to defy convention—I love doing within the microcosm of a Mason jar. I refuse to take notes even, despite once beginning a neat, black-covered notebook for it.
“Sorry,” I say.
Jonathan touches my arm. There’s no spark, nothing inherently inappropriate or forward about the action. It doesn’t seem even warm, not done in a friendly sort of way—and how could it? We’re not friends, or colleagues, merely two strangers brought together by the odd, reality television–driven world in which we live, knowing one another only in facts listed on websites and contest entry forms. The motion of him reaching out to me is automatic, driven by the bread within. He’s like Xavier, Jude. The dough has seeped through the skin of his palms, burrowed deep, and grown. The passion we share recognizes itself before we see it there ourselves.
Gretchen, tired of being outside it all, begins to chatter. Jonathan’s attention is diverted, and I hurry to the bathroom to wash my face, forgetting all about my makeup. The waterproof mascara stays put; the rest of it smears onto the rough paper towel. I take time to sit with no one around, the bulb in the ceiling humming down on me, my face gaunt in the feeble light. I read the wrapping on the toilet tissue rolls and the soap bottle label until enough time has passed. I find the kitchen as I left it, Gretchen yapping and Jonathan nodding, Xavier and Jude watching from the corner with amusement.
Stones for Bread Page 11
