“What’s wrong?” he asks, worry lacing his tone.
“I don’t know how to tell when it’s done. I’ve always just measured rise percentage for sourdough. There’s no way to know how much it’s risen, though. They didn’t mark it.”
A small smile ghosts his lips. He runs a gentle hand up my arm. “First, breathe.”
I suck in a sharp breath through my nose. The tang of sourdough and spearmint from Alex’s gum fills my lungs. His warm, strong hands linger on my biceps.
A few stations down, Lila pauses her work, watching us. Technicals are usually silent. They’re meant to be independent and competitive.
A camera moves in closer to focus on our interaction. The baby hairs at the nape of my neck prickle with awareness. No one says anything, but they’re all watching.
“Good,” he soothes without a care in the world.
“You have to read the dough, Taylor. You’re looking for a domed surface, bubbles along the top and sides, and for it to pull slightly away from the container. It should also wobble a bit if you jiggle it. Then it’s business as usual: final shaping, proofing, and baking. You’ve got this.”
“And what if it’s over?” I swallow hard, glancing at my dough again.
“Then you shape it gently and pray,” he says lightly with a shrug. “But it’s not. Just do what you do best.”
“And what do I do best?”
“Flash one of those gorgeous smiles and wing it,” Alex says with a wink before crossing the aisle back to his station. A blush heats my cheeks, and I duck my head to hide my smile. Then I turn back to my dough and give the bin a careful jiggle.
It takes forty-five minutes before all the telltale signs of properly fermented dough appear. Shaping and the final proofgo off without a hitch. I’ve chosen to bake my boule in a Dutch oven, which has been preheating in my oven the entire time.
Now it’s just a game of timing—baking it covered, then uncovering it to achieve that perfectly golden crust.
Just as I slide the oven door closed, Joe approaches. “Hey Taylor, since you’re just waiting on the bake for now, can we grab you for a quick interview?”
Production has never pulled us mid-bake to film soundbites, and that alone makes me nervous. Can’t they do this afterwards, like they usually do? I glance from Joe to my oven, then back to Joe. He smiles, gently nodding his assurance.
“Oh—uh, yeah, sure. I’ve got about twenty minutes before I need to be back to finish up. I guess I could step away…” My voice trails off. I really don’t want to leave my bread baking, but I also can’t tell production no. This is all part of it.
Alex catches my eye as I walk past. “Go. I’ve got it.”
I reach out, squeezing his hand in thanks. Joe eyes it before placing a hand on my back and guiding me out the front of the tent.
We walk across the lawn to a makeshift patio under a pergola, staged with a basket of bread and a crisp, icy pitcher of lemonade. I perch on one of the chairs, shaking out my curls. My best attempt at being camera-ready in this heat and under this pressure.
Anxiously, I pick at the dry sourdough that’s clinging under my fingernails.
Joe settles into the chair across from me while a camera operator named Cameron adjusts a reflector to bounce light onto my face. The pergola offers shade, but the heat still clings to my skin. The pitcher of lemonade sweats onto the glass table between us.
“You good?” Joe asks lightly.
“Yeah.” I smooth my apron over my knees. “As good as you can be during a sourdough technical.”
He chuckles. “Bread Week. No pressure.”
“Right, no pressure,” I echo, smiling tight.
“Okay,” he says, glancing toward the camera. “So, we saw a little hesitation earlier when you uncovered your dough. What was going through your head in the moment?”
I exhale softly, tracing a finger through the pool of condensation on the table. “I usually measure rise percentage during bulk fermentation. Without a marker on the container, I couldn’t tell how much it had grown. For a second, I just… blanked.”
“You don’t usually blank, you’re the queen of improv here in the tent.”
“No, you’re right,” I admit, shifting uncomfortably in my chair. “Technicals are supposed to be about precision, but they’re also about instinct. I just had to trust mine.”
