“Now, bakers,” Judy starts, clapping her hands together and pulling our attention away from the judges. “Your first signature bake is going to be different from the ones to come. Isn’t that right, Theo?”
“That’s correct, Judes. This challenge is open to interpretation. Our judges have asked that you create a dessert that showcases who you are. Not only as a baker, but as a person. You will have one hour to create your personality masterpiece.” Theo sets aside his dry banter to explain the challenge.
Wait. Did he say one hour? As in sixty minutes?
My fingers flex around the edge of the counter.
No. That’s not right.
I’ve read their email over a hundred times.
They said we’d haveninetyminutes for this challenge.
Frantically, I glance at the other contestants, butterflies erupting in my stomach. If they’re panicking, they don’t show it.
Did I misread the email?
“Bakers, for the first time inAmerica’s Next Great Bakerhistory, ready…” Judy leans forward, bracing her hands on her thighs.
“Set…” Theo mimics Judy’s stance.
Do I say something?No—too late for that…
“BAKE!” Both of our hosts shout at the top of their lungs, jumping in the air while all ten of us contestants spring into action at our stations.
I’m going to be fine. Everything is going to be okay. I just have to work a little faster than I did at home.No biggie.
I steal ten seconds I don’t have to breathe, roll my shoulders, and burst into motion. There’s no time to prioritize anything. I have to get everything going at once. With a flick of my wrist, the oven starts preheating.
I pivot, dropping butter and water into a saucepan, listening as it hisses and pops like tiny fireworks. Heat on. Flour in. I whisk furiously as the dough pulls together into a sticky, glossy mass.
My fingers itch to grab the eggs, but I force myself to wait. This is a labor of love. Patience is key; I can’t rush this part.
The mixture goes into a bowl. Eggs follow, one by one, coaxed in carefully to avoid scrambling. I stir, fold, and scrape like my life depends on it.
Somehow, it comes together, thick and shiny, and I can’t stop grinning at the ridiculous little mountain of potential in front of me.
I reach for the piping bag, but my mind has already sprinted ahead to the lemon curd and blueberries. In my haste, I knock over the canister of flour.
My hands begin to tremble.
Come on, Taylor!
Get the puffs piped and into the oven. They need about forty minutes on their own, and they have to be cool before I can fill them.
Once the oven door is shut, I take a quick breath, adjust my ponytail, and look around the room. The hosts and judges are making their way from station to station, chatting with each contestant as they work.
My apron is already a patchwork of flour and sugar, but I can’t bring myself to care. I get blueberries simmering for my compote, half-and-half heating for my pastry cream, and the ingredients for lemon curd in their respective saucepans. The kitchen smells like a citrus-sugar explosion. It’s gorgeous.
“Taylor,” Magnolia drawls as the group of four approaches my station. “What do you have going on over here? Looks like a little bit of everything!”
“Hi! Oh my gosh, it’s so nice to meet all of you.” I keep my hands moving, barely containing my excitement as I work. “I’m making a lemon-blueberry crème puff with classic choux, pastry cream, and a lemon curd swirl, topped with blueberry compote.”
“Crème puffs in one hour? Aren’t you worried about time? Those puffs have to be completely cool before you fill them.” Garrett’s eyes dance over my station, amused.
“It’s ambitious, yes. Truthfully, I thought we had more time. I could’ve sworn the email said ninety minutes.” I laugh nervously, brushing the loose strands of hair from my face.
“You must be mistaken; it’s always been one hour,” Theo says a little too quickly. Judy glances toward the producers, just as quickly.
