The Bake-Off

by Beth Kendrick

  Her heart rate kicked up a notch and her nostrils flared at the scent of vanilla extract. This was it—the culinary Colosseum. They would have today to practice and perfect their technique before the semifinal competition tomorrow, which hopefully would lead to earning one of the twenty-five spots in the final round on Friday.

  “Let’s see.” Amy flipped through the sheaf of papers they’d been handed by the organizers. “We’re assigned to station number thirteen. That figures. Remind me to pick up some four-leaf clovers and rabbits’ feet.”

  “Superstition is ‘the siren song of unreason,’ ” Linnie quoted.

  “Don’t tell me.” Amy pretended to rack her brains. “Dr. Seuss? They Might Be Giants?”

  “Carl Sagan.”

  When they arrived at station thirteen, Amy’s newfound friends from the cocktail reception were waiting for them.

  “You missed a good time last night,” Joan told Linnie. “I did my trademark version of ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart.’ Not a dry eye in the house.”

  Susan stood next to her stepmother, nibbling her lower lip.

  “I have to tell you something, Amy.” Her expression grew even more troubled. “You two got assigned to the worst oven on the floor.”

  Linnie immediately flew into a panic. “What’s wrong with it? Is it broken? Is the door latch faulty?” She glanced up toward the ceiling. “Are we under an air vent?”

  “Worse.” Susan motioned them in, then whispered, “You’re right next to Ty and Tai’s station.”

  “And here it’s only your first competition.” Joan shook her head at the injustice of it all. “I am so, so sorry.”

  “Ty and Tai Tottenham?” Amy asked. “That married couple from Ohio?”

  Joan nodded. “So you’ve heard of them?”

  “Yeah, we met them yesterday afternoon in the lobby.” Amy shot a sidelong look over at Linnie.

  Susan and Joan exchanged a sidelong look of their own, and then Susan cleared her throat. “You might want to keep your guard up around those two.”

  “Aha. I knew it.” Linnie turned to Amy. “Told you so.”

  Amy waited for Susan or Joan to elaborate, but when neither did, she prompted, “Well, don’t leave us hanging with all these cryptic warnings. Tell us what we’re in for.”

  Joan readjusted the floral-patterned silk scarf draped around her neck. “I hate to say a bad word about anyone, especially anyone on the cooking circuit . . . but they can get a bit overcompetitive.”

  “Conniving,” Susan added, arching one eyebrow for emphasis. “And they’re always gunning for the newbies, trying to rattle them so they crumble under pressure. The first year I made it to the semifinals here, they prank-called my hotel room every half hour, all night long. I finally took the phone off the hook, but my nerves were shot and I was a wreck during competition the next morning.”

  Amy’s eyes got huge. “You’re sure it was them?”

  “I never had any physical proof.” Susan glowered. “But I know what I know.”

  “And it’s not just the contestants they terrorize,” Joan added. “There have been a lot of rumors over the years about improper contact with the judges. Nothing substantiated, but last year, well, there was quite a kerfuffle.”

  Linnie wished she had a handy decoder ring so she could translate a soft-spoken ladyism like kerfuffle into her native tongue of ruthless virago. “Because they blackmailed some judges?”

  Susan coughed. “That’s the rumor going around.”

  “But wait,” Amy said. “Nobody even knows who the judges are. So how could Ty and Tai blackmail them?”

  “The anonymous-judge rule is brand-new this year,” Joan said. “The whole tone of the contest has changed. I’ve never been warned about getting disqualified at the welcome reception before.”

  Susan crossed her arms. “Those two give pastry a bad name.”

  “Shhh! Here they come.” Joan and Susan scattered like pigeons in Central Park, leaving Amy and Linnie to fend for themselves.

  “Don’t worry; just follow my lead. I invented overcompetitive,” Linnie said. She stood up straighter and slapped on a smile.

  “Hey! Great to see you again!” She gave a jaunty wave. “Ty and Tai, right?”

  “Right you are.” Ty was looking particularly woodsy today in chestnut suede loafers and a chunky knit sweater vest. “Our names are hard to forget, huh?”

  “It’s so nice to see some familiar faces.” Linnie had learned early on in her years at piano recitals and chess tournaments how to handle this brand of cutthroat competitors. “We’re new to all this, and it’s kind of overwhelming.”

  Tai, resplendent in a men’s white shirt knotted above tight jeans that showcased her glutes of steel, flashed a girlish grin. “Well, if you need any help, just holler. We’d be happy to give you a hand.”

  “Will do,” Linnie said, then murmured to Amy, “Just act clueless while I get down to business.”

  “Hey,” Amy said loudly, fumbling with the mixer. “How do you turn this thing on?”

  Linnie had to stifle a laugh. “Let’s not overdo it.”

  She shut out the rest of the world while she got up close and personal with her new best friend for the next few days: her oven.

  “Here we go.” She ran her fingers along the smooth stainlesssteel casing. “Moment of truth.”

  “What are we hoping for, gas or electric?” Amy asked.

  “I can deal with either, really. The bigger issue is going to be achieving and maintaining a true four hundred degrees.” Linnie opened the oven door, crouched down, and pulled a tape measure out of her pocket. “All right, first things first. I have to check the internal dimensions. Your job is to record them in this notebook. And don’t give me that look—the size of the oven makes a huge difference. Air-circulation issues can drastically affect cooking times.”

  “Linnie. This is embarassing.” Amy sounded like she was back in seventh grade, trying to ditch her kid sister at the mall. “Can’t we just break out some butter and start baking? You’re the only one in this entire ballroom sticking your head in the oven.”

  “So all the other contestants are slipshod slackers. What’s your point?”

  Amy surrendered. “My point is, here’s your oven thermometer and hurry up.”

  “Thanks, partner.” Linnie took her time measuring and remeasuring, then positioned the steel-and-glass thermometer in the middle of the oven’s center rack and commenced preheating. She brushed her hands together and took inventory of the compact but wellstocked shelves beneath the countertop. “Let’s see, we’ve got bowls, spatulas, whisks, mixing spoons, plastic wrap—and I brought my own rolling pin, naturally.” She hefted the fifteen-inch maple dowel that she had bought at a lumber liquidator and custom-engineered for optimum heft, weight, and comfort.

  “We should name our oven,” Amy said. “She’s our sidekick, our trusty companion.”

  “ ‘She’ is an inanimate object.”

  “Yeah, but she’s a lot less likely to turn on us if we treat her right.” Amy rubbed the stovetop as if she were petting a Labrador. “How about Beulah?”

  “Sounds great. Whatever you say. I’ll get started with the crust. You’re on apple-peeling duty.” When Linnie reemerged from the cabinet, she saw Amy walking away. “Hey, where are you going?”

  “I have to run to the ladies’ room before we get started.”

  “Again? Didn’t you go before we left the suite?”

  “Yeah, but I had, like, a gallon of coffee with my bagels, and my bladder is not the steel drum it was prebabies.”

  “Too bad,” Linnie decreed. “You’ll have to hold it. We’re on a schedule here.”

  Amy’s eyebrows shot up. “Um, I have news for you: I don’t need your permission. If I want a bathroom break, I’m taking one.”

  “We just got here, and you’re quitting already?” Linnie could feel the familiar, itchy heat creeping up her back and into her neck. “This is crunch time, Amy. Are you g
oing to be my partner here, or just more deadweight for me to carry? You have to stop indulging yourself and get tough.”

  Amy looked at her the way Linnie imagined she would look at a patient with a horrifically botched root canal. “Who are you right now?”

  “I’m the girl who blew the lid off every standardized IQ test, got accepted to college, and mastered four languages, including Latin, before the age of sixteen.”

  “And this is your worldview? Bathroom breaks during a practice run constitute a good-versus-evil, life-versus-death dilemma?”

  “Yes. There’s no such thing as practice—I came to win.”

  “You’re doing that all wrong.”

  Amy, who had spent the last fifteen minutes hunched over the flour-coated countertop, glanced up at Linnie, making no effort to hide her exasperation. “What now?”

  “Don’t get snippy,” Linnie said. “Let’s go through this one more time.” She flipped back to the first page of the yellow legal pad she’d filled with instructions and diagrams. “You need to start from the middle of the dough, roll forward, and then roll back. Also, you need to stop rolling over the edges. That makes the sides taper down.”

  Amy paused for a moment to reshape the marbled yellow dough, which had stretched into a lopsided oval.

  Linnie cleared her throat. “And don’t handle it too much—you want the mixture to stay cool so it’ll be nice and flaky when we bake it. Remember what Grammy said about wanting to see striations of butter?”

  Amy made a face. “Grammy Syl has never in her life uttered the phrase ‘striations of butter.’ ”

  “Well, I’m uttering it, and you have to listen to me because I’m the dough doyenne.”

  “If you’re the dough doyenne, why am I standing here rolling out crust and getting a lecture?” Amy pushed back from the counter and blew at the stray curl falling over her eyes.

  “Because we have to be prepared for any contingency,” Linnie said. “What if I break my wrist tomorrow and can’t use a rolling pin? What if you get hit by a bus, leaving me to make the apple filling while you languish in a coma?”

  “Hey, you two! Care for a sneak preview of our turtle tartlet?” Ty and Tai called over from the neighboring prep station.

  “No can do.” Linnie didn’t even glance up as she used an offset metal spatula to scrape up the crust and drape it into the glass pie plate. “I’m at a critical juncture here.”

  “How about you?” Ty turned his attention to Amy, coaxing her away from the oversize mixing bowl full of naked apple chunks, sugar, and spices. “Here, have a little nibble.”

  Like a lamb to the slaughter, Amy abandoned her work, trotted right over to the adjacent prep area, and tried a bite of the pastry Ty proffered.

  “Rookie,” Linnie muttered.

  “Mmm.” Amy’s eyes widened in appreciation as she sampled the chocolate-caramel confection. “That’s really good.”

  Ty couldn’t have looked more offended if she had spit on him.

  “It’s excellent,” he corrected, his mouth crimping around the edges.

  Amy slunk back with her head hung low and whispered, “Who takes ‘really good’ as an insult?”

  “People who came here to kick ass and take names, that’s who.” Linnie picked up a pair of scissors and started to trim and flute the edge of the piecrust. “Word to the wise: Avoid future taste tests. The next one’ll probably be laced with cyanide.”

  “Excuse me; can I steal just a second of your time?” A striking woman with glossy black hair and heavy makeup approached their prep station with a microphone and a pair of cameramen in tow. “I’m Jacqueline Aucoin with the Culinary Channel.”

  “Oh my God, I love your show,” Amy exclaimed. “The Global Gourmet, right? I watch that all the time on the treadmill at the gym.”

  “That’s me.” Jacqueline flashed a dazzling smile. “The network is producing a one-hour special on the Delicious Duet Dessert Championship and I’d love to interview you both.”

  “We’re busy,” Linnie said, not bothering to look up from her pie plate.

  But Amy preened for the camera and said, “We’d love to help you out, but the truth is, we’re both very new to the bake-off scene. You might be better off talking to some of the more established ladies.” She pointed over toward Susan and Joan.

  “Actually, I’d love to hear your perspectives as newcomers.” Jacqueline sandwiched herself between the two sisters. “Are you scared? Excited? Stressed?”

  “Excited,” Amy said, at the same time Linnie snapped, “Stressed.”

  The TV host motioned for the camera crew to zoom in on the pie-in-progress. “So tell me, what are you ladies preparing? It smells divine.”

  “Secret Sisterhood Szarlotka,” Amy said. “Basically, a Polish version of apple pie.”

  “I love the name,” Jacqueline said. “Very provocative.”

  Amy beamed. “Thank you.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d like to let us in on what the secret is?”

  “Nope,” Linnie replied, her eyes and hands still focused on the task in front of her. As the external pressures racheted up—from the precious seconds ticking away on the official Delicious Duet clock to the television interview being conducted right in her face to the undisguised death glares of Ty and Tai—she found it paradoxically easier to shut out all the distractions and concentrate, with laserlike intensity, on her end goal.

  After all these years, she had rediscovered the Zone.

  “So what do you two do when you’re not taking the baking world by storm?” Jacqueline asked Amy.

  Amy gave up all pretense of work and lollygagged over by the minifridge. “I’m a dental hygienist, and my sister here is, um, in casino management.”

  “And baking is a hobby for both of you?”

  “Totally.” Amy nodded vigorously. “Nothing helps me unwind after a long day at the dental office like firing up the food processor and knocking out some lemon-raspberry tarts. I find the whole process very Zen.”

  The interviewer turned to address Linnie. “And what about you? Would you also describe your baking style as Zen?”

  “More like deterministic chaos.”

  This stopped Jacqueline in her tracks for a moment, but she recovered and segued with, “One more question. How did you two come up with this recipe?”

  “Well, that was awkward.” Amy fanned her face with Linnie’s legal pad as Jacqueline and her production team moved on to a new set of contestants.

  “Awkward isn’t the word,” Linnie said. “That was one epic, inarticulate, incriminating bout of stammering. Why are you even talking to the press? Media exposure can’t help us; it can only hurt us.”

  “I feel another rule coming on.” Amy moved out of the way so that Linnie could slide the szarlotka, carefully arranged on a cookie tray lined with a silicone baking mat, into the meticulously preheated oven.

  Linnie checked the readout on the oven thermometer one last time, then closed the door. “No more rules, just a heartfelt request. Try to fly under the radar. I know you don’t believe in being lowkey, but just for a few days, I’m asking you to try.”

  Forty-five minutes later, the pie was browned, bubbling, and redolent with a homey blend of apple, cinnamon, and lemon that literally made Linnie’s mouth water.

  “And now the moment of truth.” She sliced into the szarlotka, carved out a sliver, and deposited it on a plain white plate. She handed this to her sister. “Taste, and prepare to admit that my methods are infallible.”

  Amy took a big bite. Her face contorted and she spit into her hand. “Blech.”

  “Too hot?”

  Amy shook her head, still swiping at her lips with a napkin. “It tastes like we marinated the apples in the Dead Sea.”

  Linnie didn’t bother with the niceties of flatware; she broke off a chunk and popped it into her mouth. Her taste buds exploded at the overwhelming taste of salt. “Blech.”

  “That is nasty.”

  Linnie f
rowned, her mind racing. “I didn’t add any extra salt.”

  “Well, neither did I,” Amy insisted. “So what happened?”

  Linnie’s gaze slid over toward the dynamic duo at the neighboring prep station. “They did something while we were distracted with the film crew.”

  “Be serious.”

  “I’m deadly serious.”

  “When did you become a crazed conspiracy theorist? Let’s look at this logically, Linnie—”

  “You’re telling me to be logical?”

  “That’s right. And logically speaking, today’s just for practice. Why would they bother?”

  “Intimidation tactics,” Linnie whispered. “You heard Joan and Susan this morning—they like to psych out the newbies. They’re trying to break us down before the big day.”

  “Elvis is alive,” Amy intoned. “The moon landing was a hoax.”

  Linnie noticed a sudden lull in activity at the next prep station. Ty and Tai were watching them. Waiting for a reaction.

  Ty caught her gaze and gave her one of his trademark Mr. Rogers waves.

  “Your pie smells delicious,” Tai called. “How’d it turn out?”

  Linnie took a bite and forced herself to swallow without gagging. “It’s excellent.”

  Chapter 11

  “This is not over,” Linnie warned Amy as they filed out of the baking area amid a throng of other contestants. “This is not over.”

  “It is for today; they’re kicking us out.” Amy queued up to reclaim her cell phone. “There’s a sightseeing tour scheduled for the afternoon for all the contestants. The Empire State Building, Rockefeller Center, the whole nine yards. It’s going to be totally kitschy and fun. You going?”

  “Tempting as that sounds, I think I’ll pass.” Linnie rubbed her eyes. “I’m going to head back to the room and take a nap. Somebody woke me up at the crack of dawn, and I need to keep up my endurance if I’m going to properly handle the Tai and Ty situation.”

  “Want me to bring you back an ‘I Heart NY’ T-shirt or a Statue of Liberty snow globe?”