Stones for Bread (15 page)

He smiles and waves and shakes hands. “Are we ready for a bake-off?”

“Yes!” everyone shouts.

Clapping, he says, “Awesome,” and rubs his palms together as if plotting my demise. His two assistants move to his prep table and unpack his prepared dough. He joins them, giving the audience the standard, brief introduction to the show and its rules. He then says,
“We’re baking two types of bread today. The first is the traditional French baguette. No other shape or type of bread is more recognized in the world. Everyone who sees these long, slim loaves knows what they are, or at least where they’re from.
Baguette
can be translated into English as ‘stick’ or ‘wand’ and has only four ingredients, usually—water, flour, yeast, and salt.”

I form my baguettes and bunch the couches around them. Jonathan does the same, facing the camera, giving instruction to the future home audience. The second camera records my hands. Patrice Olsen instructs me to say something, and I fumble around for a smudge of something interesting or significant. My mother always told me something new as we baked together, or whenever I asked, “Tell me something about bread.” I said those words that day in the bed with her, when she’d come down from her mania into the miry clay of despair. My fingers pick the edge of the linen cloth cradling my loaves.

“You should never wash your couche,” I say finally. I think of my mother, holding hers over the sink and gently fluttering away the excess flour dust. “The yeast and dough residue is what helps give baguettes their signature crust. You want your linen to be seasoned with it. Just brush them off.”

“Great advice, Liesl,” Jonathan says, and then removes a wicker picnic basket from beneath his table. “Now it’s time to reveal the secret ingredient to be included in our second type of bread. This can be made of any type of dough, but must prominently feature whatever is in this basket.”

The crowd hushes and he opens the lid, removes two containers, and holds them in the air so all can see. “Chèvre,” he declares. “Goat cheese.”

Jude looks at me. “What a joke. I thought you would get something good, like sour gummy worms or turkey feet or something.”

Jonathan speaks to the camera as he works a new lump of dough,
explaining how he’s using the same base formula as his baguettes, but adding the sweet twist of maple syrup and apples.

“Ciabatta,” I tell Jude.

“Seriously?”

“I need you to caramelize some onions for me.”

He snorts. “I can’t cook.”

“Where’s Tee?” I scan the room. “Or Zave.”

“Pops is checking on the oven. Tee’s so short, she’s probably stuck behind someone out there.”

“Tee can’t be here until this afternoon,” Xavier says, coming from the kitchen. He dries his hands on a towel, carefully slipping his wedding band to his knuckle so he can wipe beneath it. Annie has been dead five years. “I’m still married to her,” he told me once when he caught me looking at the ring. “Don’t matter that she’s not here. I know.”

“I need someone to caramelize some onions.” I motion to Jude. “Apparently boy wonder here only works in bread.”

“He can use a can opener, but heating the contents is a challenge. And forget frozen pizza. I’ve had to scrape more than one blackened crust from the oven rack.”

“Electric oven?” I ask.

“Unfortunately,” Xavier says.

“I suppose we can forgive him, then.”

“Whoa,” Jude says. “Not cool, people.”

I ask him to pull the buttermilk sourdough; I’d taken several of my wet starters, fed them vigorously yesterday, and created three different dough variations early this morning, giving them time to rise. “The green bowl.”

“Yeah, okay,” he grumbles.

“And I’ll take care of the onions,” Xavier says. “Why do you need them?”

“Ciabatta,” Jude says.

“Dough.” I point to the door. He goes and I show Xavier the container of goat cheese. “I need something splashy. I thought a caramelized onion and Chèvre ciabatta.”

“Using the buttermilk starter as a base?”

“I consistently get the biggest rooms with it.”

“You need a third ingredient, I think. Apricots?”

I nod toward the other table. “Scott’s going sweet already. I’ll stay savory for contrast. Sun-dried tomato?”

“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 you 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

L
IESL
’
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.

I
NGREDIENTS
:

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

E
QUIPMENT
:

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

D
O
A
HEAD

P
REPARING THE
F
IRM
S
TARTER

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).