Dough or Die Read online

  “Cut,” Mack said. “Try not to say things like as you know. Pretend we’re hearing it all for the first time, because the audience will be.”

  So what I needed to do was pretend like they hadn’t done a thorough background check on me, probably looking under all manner of rocks in the process. I nodded and Mack rolled his index finger in the air. We started again. Sandra repeated her line. “I understand you met Olaya Solis during a bread-making class here at Yeast of Eden. Would you tell me about that?”

  I inhaled to give myself a second to calm down. “After high school, I moved to Austin, Texas, to attend college.”

  “A Longhorn, eh?” Sandra extended her index finger and pinkie, pressing her thumb to her middle and ring fingers at the inside of her palm, then swept her makeshift horns down like her pinkie was going to hook onto something. It was the quintessential UT Austin hand symbol. “Hook ’em, Horns!” she said with a big smile.

  I mirrored her action and repeated the line, a trifle less enthusiastically than she had because the inhalation had done nothing to calm my nerves. “Hook ’em, Horns.”

  “And there was a broken heart involved in the decision to leave California, I understand?” Sandra said.

  As I’d thought—all manner of rocks. I wasn’t about to dig into my love life on air, though. “There was,” was all I said, but Sandra had more information to throw at me.

  “And the broken heart, was it yours, or did it belong to the very eligible Miguel Baptista?”

  Wow. She’d dug deep. “Um, both of us, I guess.”

  “But you two have reconciled, is that right?”

  I managed a small smile, despite the intrusion into my personal life. “We have, very happily.”

  “It is truly wonderful when things work out the way they should,” Sandra said.

  Had they worked out the way they should? My mother’s death had brought me back to Santa Sofia. If not for that, Miguel and I wouldn’t be back together. There would not have been a second chance for us. I loved Miguel, but if I could have my mother back, I’d choose that.

  Sandra seemed to read my mind. “A tragedy brought you back to your hometown, is that right?”

  She knew it was. “Um, yes. I’d recently gotten divorced, and then my mother, um, died.” I didn’t want to go into the details of her death, so I left it at that. “It was time to come back to Santa Sofia and be with my family.” I felt a swell of emotion rise inside me. When I stood outside the pearly gates, if St. Peter asked me what my biggest regret in life was, it would be that I hadn’t come home in time to see my mother before she was gone.

  “When did you meet Olaya Solis?” Sandra quickly asked, redirecting the conversation. I could tell she knew she was going to lose me if she didn’t get the interview back on track.

  “I did move back . . . after . . . but I felt really lost with my mother gone. My brother, my father . . . we were all struggling. I spent a lot of time on the beach and just walking around town taking pictures. Trying to get my mojo back, you know? And I stopped into Yeast of Eden one day to get a croissant. Then the next day I came again. Pretty soon I was coming every day. I’d tried every single thing Olaya baked and couldn’t get enough. Her bread made me feel . . . better, somehow.”

  Literally. I remembered how Olaya had told me she came from a long line of brujas. Witches. Their family legend told the story of a woman who had been wronged by a man. She was a curandera —or a healer—and had gone on to bless the future women in her family line. She believed in the power of female relationships, so she blessed the family to ensure that mothers and daughters, grandmothers, aunts, nieces, godmothers . . . they would be the relationships that lasted beyond every other. She had also blessed the women in the family with the ability to infuse what they baked with a bit of magic. If someone ailed, whether from heartache, physical pain, or something else, bread from the Solis women could help make things right.

  “Olaya sees bread baking as an art,” I said, remembering what she’d told the women in the very first class I’d taken. “She comes in early every day. Four thirty. The rest of Santa Sofia is asleep, but Olaya is here baking.” Granted, she had a small crew of people to help her, but she was the one who never faltered. “She says that bread must look right. Taste right. And must be completely natural. She uses a long-rise method. That gives you the payoff. Baking bread the traditional way takes time. That’s something a lot of people don’t have, but it’s what she believes in. It takes patience. Baking bread for Olaya Solis is like meditation. For the people who eat her bread, it’s healing.”

  Sandra nodded, smiling. She had liked that response. “What made you take the class with her that first time?”

  Again, I remembered back to the moment I’d first spoken to Olaya. I’d been standing outside the bread shop, wanting to go inside but was scared at the same time. Baking was not in my repertoire. Olaya had opened the door and stood there in a colorful caftan and red clogs. She’d looked at me with her gold-flecked green eyes and told me that she’d been waiting for me and that coming inside would change my life. I didn’t know her, but she seemed to understand just what I needed to begin healing. I’d felt an instant connection with her, and as I’d walked into Yeast of Eden’s kitchen, the heart and soul of the bread shop, feeling the scent of fresh-baked bread wrap around me like a warm blanket, I knew that she was right. This was where I was meant to be.

  How could I explain all of this to Sandra Mays and Mack Hebron?

  “Ivy?” Sandra looked at me expectantly.

  I scanned the room. Mack leaned against the wall, nodding with encouragement. The cameraman, whose name I’d learned was Ben Nader—a fifty-something man who was tanned and fit and looked like he spent every spare moment in the sun—stood quietly with his equipment. He looked a million miles away, as if he could do his job without giving it a second thought. The rest of the crew melted into the background.

  “Ivy?” Sandra said again. If it wouldn’t have been rude, I imagined she would have snapped her fingers in front of my face to draw me out of my memory.

  I blinked, reminded myself of the question, and said, “This place is magical. There’s no other way to describe it. Olaya has a way of knowing what people need. She’s taught me so much, not only about bread, but about myself, what I want, and what makes me happy. That’s what the Bread for Life program is all about. Every person and every culture has a story, and food is almost always part of it. Bread is part of it. She had this idea to bring us together through our stories. Through our cultures. Through our bread.”

  Sandra sliced the air with her hand and looked at Ben. “Cut.” To me, she said, “That was perfect.” She ignored Mack, looking at Ben instead. “Wasn’t that perfect?”

  Ben had taken out his cell phone and looked like he was texting someone, only half paying attention to the on-air host, but he nodded. “Sure, Sandy-ra.”

  Sandra’s lips parted like she was going to chastise him, but then she changed her mind, closed them again, and let it go.

  Mack jumped in. “Here’s the plan. We’re going to jump into the bread-making today and tomorrow. We’ll do the intro, get any additional footage we may need, and we’ll wrap on day three, unless we decide we need more. Questions?”

  I just stood there while Sandra gave him a curt nod before walking out in front of me, not bothering to hold the door open for us.

  Ben put his phone away, removed the camera from the tripod, and propped it on his shoulder. He had a ball cap with the news station’s call letters embroidered on the front pulled low over his forehead. I held the door while he passed by me with a little nod of thanks. Mack brought up the rear. “She’s a piece of work,” he said as his hand gripped the door, relieving me of it. “Don’t let her get to you. You’re a natural. You did great.”

  I didn’t think she was the only piece of work, but I didn’t bother saying so. “Thanks, and I won’t,” I said, but he’d already passed me by.

  Chapter 3

  I
f I was a natural in front of the camera, I didn’t know what that made Zula. That woman was born to be a reality TV show host. As she led us through the history of hembesha, a traditional Eritrean food, she had an animated conversation with the camera Ben Nader held. Her personality blossomed with each word she spoke.

  Sandra walked up and looked at the ingredients on the counter in front of Zula. “Tell me more about this . . . hembesha.”

  Zula adopted a serious air. “It is an East African bread. Soft. Fragrant. Very earthy. I know you will like it very well—”

  Sandra bent at the waist to look at the collection of ingredients at Zula’s station, examining each container, picking one up to look at it before putting it down again and replacing it with another. “I’m sure we will.”

  Zula’s eyes were wide and uncertain as Sandra abruptly walked away from her and came over to where I stood. “Ivy, you’re what Olaya has called an apprentice baker at Yeast of Eden. You’re here helping out today?”

  I smiled at her, trying to tuck away a few wayward strands of curls that had slipped from my topknot. I was going to be on national cable television representing Santa Sofia and Yeast of Eden. Of course my hair hadn’t cooperated. It felt strange rehashing the same story we’d talked about just a short time ago during my interview, but I launched into it nonetheless. “That’s right. I took a bread making class from her and—”

  “Right. Interesting. And today you’re all making. . . what’s it called again?”

  “Hembesha,” I said, my smile becoming strained. Sandra Mays was clearly going through the motions. She didn’t seem to have much real interest in what we were making or the group of women here. “It’s an Eritrean bread.”

  “Yes, of course. Hembesha. What can you tell us about it?”

  Aside from what Zula had already shared? Not much. “Zula can tell you more about it than I can.” I looked at her instead of at Sandra. “You ready?”

  “I am ready,” Zula said, meeting my gaze with more composure than I was feeling. She turned to the other women. “You have everything you need, including ground coriander, cardamom, and fenugreek.”

  Mack came up next to Zula. Ben turned his body and directed his camera at the two of them. “Tell me about this . . . fenugreek,” he said amiably. His demeanor was night-and-day different than Sandra’s and he’d asked the obvious question given that most of us probably had never heard of fenugreek. I knew I hadn’t. As Zula unscrewed the cap of one of the jars at her station, I did the same. As she held the jar out for Mack to smell, I put the jar of ground seeds to my nose and took a whiff. I tried to put my finger on what it reminded me of when Mack exclaimed, “It’s like curry!”

  Ah, exactly!

  Sandra elbowed her way back into the frame, crowding Zula on her other side. “These are spices specific to Africa, I assume?”

  Zula shook her head. “No, not to Africa. Asia, I think. The fenugreek seeds were discovered in Iraq, too.”

  “Fascinating,” Sandra said, although her fascination didn’t feel authentic. Looking back to Ben and his camera, she continued. “Learning about different cultures is a big part of the Bread for Life program here at Yeast of Eden. Where else would you learn about—” She looked at Zula. “What’s it called again?”

  Mack answered instead. “Fenugreek.”

  Claire pressed her lips together, stifling a laugh. She and Amelie listened intently, but Esmé stretched one hand across her forehead and rubbed her temples with the thumb and middle finger like she was fighting a headache. I watched her as she slipped her cell phone from her back pocket and quickly texted someone. She put her phone away again and went back to massaging her temples. Her expression was pained, but she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. A moment later, when she looked at Sandra again, she looked calm and collected.

  Odd, I thought. What was wrong with her?

  Zula began mixing the ingredients together, talking through each step as she added all-purpose flour, wheat flour, dry yeast, the mixture of spices, crushed fresh garlic, one egg, and warm water to the bowl. She dug her hands in, combining it all together.

  Each of the women did the same, myself included. In seconds, my hands were covered in the sticky mess of dough, but as I incorporated more flour, it became less sticky.

  “Keep kneading,” Zula said. “You must mix in every last bit of the flour. After a short while, it will become soft and smooth.”

  For a minute I doubted her, but she was right. It took some time, but the dough formed a smooth ball. After she instructed us to cover it and we each set the dough aside so it could rise, she called “Cut!”

  Mack laughed, but Sandra scowled at Zula usurping her reality TV authority. Or maybe she was irritated at Mack for indulging Zula. If Sandra had called Cut! I imagined Mack would have been testy about it. Those two had some issues to work out if they were going to make America’s ’s Best Bakeries a success. TV viewers wanted to see chemistry between the hosts, not tension.

  We all followed Zula’s lead and covered our bowls. “Oh! Uncut!” She looked at Ben and rolled her finger. He counted down with his fingers and pointed at her. Mack bit his lip, holding in his burgeoning guffaw. Sandra, however, didn’t have any mirth in her. Her scowl was back, front and center. Or, rather, it had never left.

  “We must wait forty-five minutes for the dough to rise,” Zula said. “Maybe we could let it rise longer, but we will use the magic of television to show the best finished hembesha.” She crouched in front of her station, retrieving something from the lower shelf.

  When she stood, I laughed. She held a tray with a fully baked, golden tear-apart round of hembesha. Impressive. I gave her a thumbs-up and mouthed, “Good planning.” She was determined to make sure her segment for this new show was as good as it could be.

  Mack nodded with approval as he tore off a piece of the bread. The others gathered around and did the same. All except Sandra, who remained on the periphery. Ben swiveled the camera to face her. “And that, friends, is hembesha.”

  She signaled for Ben to cut. “The bread has to rise for forty-five minutes?” she asked. Zula confirmed with a nod and Sandra continued. “So we’ll pick up then.”

  “Nicely done,” Mack said. Zula beamed, her smile illuminating her face. Mack pulled her aside and they chatted. I wondered about what, but turned my attention to the camera, sound, and light people as they put their equipment in the makeshift conference room. When Ben came back into the kitchen, he held up a pack of cigarettes. “Where can I smoke?”

  It was a good question. Santa Sofia was a smoke-free town in public spaces. “The back parking lot is the only place around here,” I said. I showed him the door and followed him outside. “There’s a bench over there.” I pointed out one of the flowerbeds.

  He angled his head to look, raising his eyebrows at me. I led him closer. The spring blooms in the flowerbed had exploded with color. The hydrangeas, lavender, coral bells, columbine, bellflowers, and daisies flourished to the point that the little black wrought-iron bench was well hidden.

  Ben made a face. “I think—”

  He broke off and wandered past the bench, looking up at the building. I followed, curious about what he’d been about to say. And also to make sure he didn’t make his way all the way to the front of the bread shop to light up. No smoking in public spaces was a strict ordinance that the city took very seriously.

  I needn’t have worried. He stopped beside a lemon tree. Behind it, vines climbed the brick walls. I stood beside him, watching him curiously as he adjusted his ball cap and peered up to the roofline, then straight ahead at the vines. “It used to be here.”

  “What used to be here?” a man’s voice said, coming up beside me. It was a voice I recognized well.

  I spun to face him, knowing that a smile had lit up my face. “Hey, you,” I said.

  Miguel Baptista stood six feet, which meant he lowered his head and I arched my neck for our lips to meet. “Hey,” he said, smiling back at me.
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  I did a quick introduction. “Miguel Batista, Ben Nader. Ben, Miguel.” To Miguel I said, “Ben is the local cameraman for America’s Best Bakeries segment. They started taping today. He works with Sandra Mays and Mack Hebron.” To Ben I said, “Miguel is the owner of Baptista’s Cantina and Grill.” I left out that part about Miguel being my boyfriend. As a thirty-six-year-old woman, it sounded silly to phrase it that way. We’d been boyfriend/girlfriend back in high school. Now we were on a path toward a life together, but how did you work that into casual conversation?

  Miguel and Ben shook hands, then both turned to stare at the vines climbing the wall. Ben had lit his cigarette and taken a few drags, but now he tossed it on the ground and stamped it out with a twist of his foot. “Me and my friends used to go up to the roof here.”

  I followed his gaze. “Like climb up?”

  He adjusted his hat. “Yeah. God, it’s been a long time, but I’m sure this is the spot. This place wasn’t a bakery back then. Or . . . at least I don’t think it was.” He stepped into the flowerbed next to the lemon tree and reached his hands out, pulling some of the vines apart. “There used to be a ladder here.” After a second, he moved a few steps and tried again.

  “You think it’s still there?” I asked. Ben looked to me to be in his fifties, which meant high school had been more than thirty years ago. Enough time for an old ladder to the rooftop of the bread shop building to be long gone.

  He made no acknowledgment that I’d spoken. Instead, he walked farther down the parking lot, looked up at the side of the building, then stopped and split the vines apart again. “Bingo,” he said, looking back at us, a goofy grin on his face. “I knew it was here.”

  Miguel and I both stared. “Wait,” he said. “There’s actually a ladder there?”

  Ben yanked some of the vines away, clearing them away from the ladder, then stood back to show us. “Hidden right here.”

  The guy was right. A metal ladder, which looked like a rusty fire escape contraption from an old San Francisco brownstone or painted lady, had become a makeshift trellis for the vines. I peered up, shading my eyes from the glare of the late afternoon sun. “You used to climb this?”