Who doesn’t love Italian food? Pizza, spaghetti, minestrone, garlic bread—you name it, I’m here for it. But Italian dessertsfeel a little trickier to place. Aside from tiramisu and gelato, what else even counts?
Since my experience with Italian baking is limited, I opted for mini tiramisu cups for our signature this morning. It was risky given the time constraint, but I stabilized the mascarpone cream as much as I could so that I didn’t serve them creamy coffee soup.
Thankfully, it worked.
Magnolia appreciated the intensity of my espresso, but Garrett called out my presentation. The layers weren’t perfect, which isn’t the worst critique I could’ve gotten, but it still stings since I took my time with them. I’ll just have to try that much harder next time.
There were a handful of other tiramisus. I guess a lot of us were unsure how to tackle the challenge ofcelebrating classic Italian flavors.
Alex and Brandon were the standouts, each making different Italian cookies. Both batches were flawless, but Alex received high praise for his precise layers in his Italian Rainbow Cookies. It doesn’t surprise me that a man who moves with such intention across his station has flawless execution with something like this.
We took a brief lunch break and have all reconvened in the tent for our second technical challenge. Lila, who is directly in front of me, turns around to flash me a quick smile.
“Let’s do this, Taylor!” She exclaims, raising her hand high for a high-five over my workbench. I smile back, smacking my hand into hers, catching the glint of her phone screen on her station. I wave, then slide to the other side of my station to be out of frame.
I don’t fault Lila for filming every moment she can here, but I also don’t want to be on her live when I’m doing my best toswallow all of my nerves. Just in case, I swipe my hands over my hair to smooth it down anyway.
God, I’m so nervous for this one.
The judges consistently love my flavors, but Garrett always finds fault with my execution.
There’s no room for error today.
“For this challenge,” Garrett announces. “We would like you to make twenty-four identical pizzelle. They should be thin, crisp, evenly colored, and delicately flavored. Twelve with anise, and twelve with citrus. You have one hour to accomplish your task.”
Same as last week, the judges leave the tent, and the hosts immediately announce that our time has begun. Since they don’t waste any time, neither do I.
I set the iron to what I assume is the proper temperature and mix my batter while I wait for it to heat up. There’s some trial and error in finding the right amount of batter and the exact timing to achieve that perfect golden shade, but it only takes a couple of oopsies before I figure it out.
Pizzelle are deceptive like that. Simple enough to look easy, unforgiving enough to punish every lapse in attention or judgment. Good thing I have a little extra of both today.
Once I find that magic ratio, I lean into the rhythm of the process, reminding myself that I don’t have to be the best. I just have to avoid being the worst.
Across the tent, Alex barely looks up from his station. His movements are efficient as always, almost bored, like he could do this in his sleep.
Who am I kidding? He probably can.
When he lifts the lid of his iron, his expression gives away nothing. He just checks the color, adjusts the heat, and moves on with no wasted thought or effort.
In front of me, Lila is having the opposite experience.
She opens her iron and winces. The pizzelle droops over the edge, too pale in places, too dark in others. She peels it off with her fingers, already shaking her head before it’s fully free.
“Ugh,” she mutters, glancing toward the cameras.
I refocus on my own station, but my eyes keep drifting forward to Lila’s growing discard pile, then sideways to Alex’s neat row of cooling cookies. He lines them up without thinking, adjusting one that’s barely off-center.
He seems different today, almost content in a way I don’t recognize on him. The scowl that usually guards his face is gone, replaced by a soft peacefulness. It makes him look younger, or maybe, more his age. Less android prodigy, more compelling artisan.
I bite my lip and smile;it looks really good on him.
As if he heard me, he inclines his head in my direction. He smirks, eyes darting from my face to the iron on my station before mouthing, “Pay attention.”
Silly, Alex. Iampaying attention.
When time is called, I look down at my plate of cookies, proud of what I accomplished. They’re relatively close in size, with good design definition from the iron. The shade isn’t exactly identical, but they’re in the same window. Definitely more cousins than sisters, but hey, at least they’re in the same family.
Somehow, I’m the last to bring my bake to the judging table. The rest are already exiting the tent, waiting.
