Page 9 of The Golden Spoon
It took me years to get there. I took an unpaid internship at a competing publication out of college, working two other jobs to pay the bills. I slowly, painfully made a career for myself in journalism, but it wasn’t until a position opened atThe Republicthat all my strugglingpaid off. Well, not monetarily. It didn’t pay even close to enough. Most journalists come from money to offset this. I did not. But I had wanted to work atThe Republicfor a decade. When I got the job, I thought my entire life was set. I understood whatThe Republicwas trying to do, and I believed in it. Even though I was told by my advisor that I was inexperienced and not to overstep my bounds, I went around her and started pitching stories directly to Hardy. The first thing I published was a piece about creative thinking. I loved forming connections in my mind, noticing what people gravitated to. I remember watching that first story go viral, following the conversation as it jumped from the comments section to Twitter and Facebook and finally to my email inbox, where other publications clamored to quote me, and radio shows begged to interview me. It was a high unlike anything I’d ever experienced, and all I wanted was more of it. I was quickly promoted to assistant editor, then editor. I got to write about politics for a living, and I loved it. Not that it wasn’t exhausting at times; it was beyond exhausting. But mostly it was invigorating. I loved calling up sources and then piecing information together around an idea. I loved watching everything take shape in the form of a story and pairing it with a bold headline and my name just below. The thrill of it never wore off. I loved my work. And then everything fell apart. I still can’t bring myself to think about it.
Holed up in my apartment, I watched my savings drain away and I tried not to panic. The only thing I could think of to do was bake. This was not the sweaty adrenaline rush that filing a story brought to me, this was calm and meditative.
Baking quickly turned into my safe place. Now if I’m stressed or anxious or even feeling lonely, I go to the bookshelf where I keep my cookbooks and trail my finger along their colorful spines, looking for inspiration.
On the day of the call, I was standing at my kitchen counter preparingto tackle one of Betsy Martin’s most iconic creations: honey cake. I was deep into the planning stage and had an image of how I could decorate it, bees with almond sliver wings and spun sugar made to look like honeycomb.
It was an unfamiliar California number, and I almost didn’t pick up. “Hello?” I asked suspiciously, expecting a recording to come on telling me about my plummeting credit score.
“Is this Stella Velasquez?” She sounded amped up, like I’d won something.
“It is. I mean, I am,” I stuttered, surprised.
“This is Melanie Blaire, theBake Weekcoordinator. I’ve called to tell you that you’ve got the job, you’re going to be a contestant on the next season ofBake Week!”
I was so surprised I had to sit down, then stand up, then sit again.
The application had been weeks ago, mostly at the insistence of my best friend, Rebecca, who has eaten far more of my cakes and pastries than anyone else. We’d met for drinks at a new bar in Brooklyn.
“I’m paying,” she said immediately as we slid into a plush pink booth. “I owe you for all the cakes and cookies you’ve given me.”
I’d taken one look at the menu of cocktails, each more impressive than the last and priced accordingly, and knew she was taking pity on me.
“Are you paying me back or paying me to stop foisting them on you?”
“Both?” She laughed. “Seriously, though, Stel, you are an amazing baker. Better than anyone I know. You should apply forBake Week.”
Of course, I laughed her off. “What are you even talking about? Do you know how many people try to get intoBake Week?” I’d asked her.
“I dare you.” She smiled her most winning smile. “What do you have to lose? As you said, they will never pick you. We’re going to have one more drink, and then you’re going to go back to your place and enter! Drinks on me for a month if youdon’tget chosen.” I’d poked my straw into the lime in my gin and tonic and said I’d think it over. Later that evening, quite buzzed, I’d looked up the application online.Bake Week’s cheerful spoon and whisk logo popped onto my screen. I recognized the face of my favoriteBake Weekwinner holding the Golden Spoon on the homepage and clicked on the application tab. It wouldn’t hurt to just fill out the form, no one had to know.
I was floored when I got the first callback, but by the time I’d made it to the second-round audition at a culinary school in Manhattan, I knew my time had come to an end. Melanie had not looked impressed when she bit into my passion fruit and lemon curd layer cake. I think she may have even winced. After I walked out, I texted Rebecca and told her to meet me at our bar. I’d needed a drink and to tell her how ridiculous she’d been forcing me to apply to begin with.
And then a few weeks later I got the call. Standing against my kitchen counter phone in hand, I wondered if this could really be true? I felt a giddy anxiousness fill my body. It was followed by the strange sensation that maybe, finally, something wonderful was about to happen to me. When I hung up the phone, I realized that I was holding Betsy Martin’s cookbook. I knew then that it was a sign. Betsy Martin was truly helping me. She had been there for me these past eight months, in the reruns of her old cooking show, in episodes ofBake Week, and in her cookbooks. She pulled me through my darkest spells with her brisk optimism and can-do attitude. “This recipe seems daunting, but you can’t look at the whole picture, just go step by step,” she said once. I took in all her words as much more than advice for making macarons. “Step by step” had become my mantra over the past year. Betsy was my guide, helping me not become overwhelmed. It isn’t an exaggeration to say that the prospect of baking one of Betsy Martin’s recipes motivated me to get out of bed on some mornings.
“Fifteen minutes left!” Archie’s voice booms through the tent.
I open my oven and feel the panic start to rise in my chest as I pull my bread out and set it on a counter. It will need to cool before I can pull it out of the pan. Will I have enough time? I close my eyes for just a moment, breathing deeply.You can do this, Stella, step by step.
GERALD
I have always believed that to truly do something well you need to go back to its essence and learn its basics. Just as Picasso didn’t paint in the abstract until he had mastered portraits and still life, I believe it is unwise to skip learning the fundamentals of proper baking and go straight to vanilla-glazed mille-feuilles. I see the others around me attempting filled rolls and braided loafs. They’ve instantly gone for flashy breads and garish flavor combinations. It’s a classic case of style over substance. Why focus on fillings when you don’t have the right bake or texture? I suspect that many of their techniques will fail due to lack of basic skill. Bread is not forgiving. You can’t hide a bad rise behind a dusting of parmesan or an uneven bake inside an elaborate design. That is why I have chosen breads that are very simple and very classic—a herbed boule, with a fast rise and a good thick crust of sesame seeds and classic cinnamon buns.
I’m deeply focused on perfectly rolling each bun and packing them into a baking tray so they can be pulled apart for serving, when out of the corner of my eye I notice Archie approaching my table. This will be his third time talking to me today. When I budgeted my time at the beginning of the bake, I hadn’t accounted for forced host interactions. One of the producers even asked if I would re-stir somethingI had just mixed so they could get it on camera. Most certainly not, I thought. Inefficiency is my largest pet peeve, but I knew I needed to be more flexible for the show, so I’d swallowed my pride and pretended I was stirring it for the first time. It’s a good thing they were just dry ingredients, or I really would have refused. I will not compromise the integrity of my dough for a cheap shot.
“Gerald,” Archie says, drawing out the sound of my name as though we are close friends. “What are you making for us today?”
I don’t look up at first. I’m rolling my last bun, and if I lose my grip on the dough, I could cause this section to be uneven. I consider telling him that it’s not a good time, but then I remember the guidelines in our dossier which explained that it was part of our work here to interact with the hosts and camera crew when they came by our tables. So I stretch my face into a congenial expression that feels tight and unnatural.
“This is an herb boule.” I gesture to the oven where my dough is still proving.
“Can we see it to get a quick shot?” Archie asks. I hesitate but slide the drawer open for just a moment, releasing a warm yeasty plume into the air, and then quickly slide it shut. It leaves behind the fragrance of parsley, cilantro, and basil, some of the herbs I’ve mixed into my boule.
“And these are my cinnamon buns. I’ve used my own hand-ground rye flour to balance the sweetness and specially sourced Vietnamese cinnamon and just a touch of cardamom.” The people with the cameras hover above my baking pan. They are crowding me, and I worry that one will accidentally disturb the dough I’ve spent so much time sculpting. I fight the urge to ask them to step back a few paces.
“The cinnamon rolls look lovely. And the rye is an interesting choice. I’m excited to see how that turns out. But a true boule, though, in such a short time?” Archie whistles under his breath, shaking his head as though I’m attempting to do something very dangerous.
“It’s a short rise. It works because I use a full tablespoon of yeast and I bake it inside a preheated cast-iron Dutch oven.”
