“Certifiably awful.”
“Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much. I see your mouth twitching, just itching to burst into a smile over my antics. It’s best not to fight it.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Oliver quipped. This is exactly what I’d wanted, to have Oliver cut loose and be himself.
We worked through the steps until we got to the part I’d been looking forward to most—kneading. I threw my weight into the dough with enthusiasm. Press, fold, turn, repeat.
Oliver leaned against the counter, his eyes widening and eyebrows flying to his hairline. “You’re kneading the dough like you’re interrogating it,” he said.
I looked up, finger poised in mock-accusation toward the shapeless mass. “This dough knows what it did. I will make it talk. It can’t hide from the truth.”
“Okay, Detective Dough, relax. Time for the good cop.” Oliver nudged me aside with the gentlest hip-check known to mankind and took over. “You don’t need to overzealously manhandle it like it’s a hardened criminal. Overwork it and the gluten goesberserk—it gets tough, won’t rise, flavors tank. Basically, it becomes the culinary version of emotional damage.”
“Wow. Look at you, Professor Bake-It-All. Knowing all the science and everything. Consider me dazzled.”
“You’re dazzled now?” He smirked, folding and turning the dough with admittedly far less force than I’d used. “I’ll show you how an actual baker kneads.”
With calm and sure hands, Oliver shaped the dough, his movements smooth. It was kinda mesmerizing. Then we set the dough aside to chill under a tea towel.
“Now for the real finesse, twisting the dough into the right shape,” Oliver said once the dough had reached an appropriate size. He rolled out a piece, looped it, twisted, folded, and bam, perfect pretzel. “Judging by how you knead, I have some concerns about your skill.”
“Wow. That’s just rude. I possess ample finesse.”
“Ample,” he repeated. “Alright then, show us what you’ve got, Master Walker.”
“Challenge accepted. Prepare to be amazed.”
I grabbed a chunk of dough and went for it—stretch, loop, twist, fold—except somewhere along the way I goofed the process, and what I ended up with looked like a melted ampersand, or maybe a swan mid-fall.
Oliver leaned in to examine my creation. “What is that?”
“It’s art,” I declared. “A bold contribution to the movement I call Snack Surrealism.”
“No, what that is, is a monstrosity.”
I studied the poor, crumpled twist of dough sitting on the tray.
“It’s just different. A little misunderstood, sure, but that doesn’t make it wrong. Not everything has to be some symmetrical, bakery-window supermodel. This pretzel right here? It’s a rebel. It refuses to twist itself into society’s idea ofwhat a pretzel should look like. Honestly? Inspiring. Besides, once it’s golden, warm, salted, and in our stomachs, we won’t care what it looked like, only that it tasted good.”
“You do realize most people just bake the pretzel, right? They don’t give it a backstory.”
“Maybe they should,” I shot back. “Maybe that’s what baking is lacking. I’m what you might call a doughmestic partner. Where you knead dough, I knead meaning into its existence.”
“Luke, you should be ashamed of yourself. I’m filing for doughvorce.”
“Ha! I knew you had it in you. The power of the pun cannot be denied.”
“Don’t get too excited. That was a one-time lapse in judgment,” he warned.
“Nope. Too late. You’ve crossed into my territory now. You’re knead-deep in it.”
Oliver groaned. “No. No more puns. I’m begging you.”
“And if I don’t stop, what are you gonna do? Bake up a plan to stop me?”
“Or maybe I’ll just...” He trailed off, hand reaching into the bag of flour and throwing it at me.
The white dust hit my chest in a softpoof. We both froze. Oliver’s eyes went huge, like he couldn’t believe what he’d done. Within milliseconds his expression crumpled, his hands raising in a defensive gesture, like he expected to be hit for daring to have fun. His mouth opened in what was sure to be an apology.
