The Bake-Off (2 page)

 

Using a fork, beat the sour cream into the egg yolks. Blend just enough to combine—it's fine if the mixture is still streaky. Put the egg mixture aside in the fridge for now.

 

Combine the flour, sugar, and salt in a food processor and pulse a few times to combine the dry ingredients. Add the cold butter and pulse in quick spurts until the mixture reaches the “small pea stage”—that is, there are visible pea-size pieces of coated butter surrounded by tiny, mealy crumbs.

 

Add the egg-yolk mixture and pulse a few more times to combine the dry and wet ingredients. **
Do not overprocess.
** The dough should still look mealy and clumpy, but should stick together when you squeeze it in your hand. If the dough does not stick together and instead feels crumbly and dry, try adding another tiny dollop of sour cream.

 

What's that? You say Martha Stewart doesn't live at your house and you don't own a food processor? No problem! Julia Child used to make piecrust with a stand mixer, and if it's good enough for Julia, it's good enough for me.

 

If you're using a stand mixer, you're going to combine the ingredients in the same order as described above, but you're going to use the flat paddle attachment for your mixer, and you're going to use the very slowest setting on the mixer—“stir.” Again, be careful not to overmix—you should aim for about 1–2 minutes to reach the “small pea stage,” and maybe another 1–2 minutes after you add the wet ingredients.

 

Once the dough has been mixed, pour it onto a cutting board or sheet of waxed paper and form a large ball. Knead it by pushing down in the center, then pushing in from the sides, about five times. Separate about one-third of the dough from the rest, form the two sections into thick disks, wrap the disks tightly in plastic wrap, and chill in refrigerator for at least 30 minutes.

 

Resist the temptation to go watch E! for half an hour and instead get started on the apple filling.

 

Peel, core, and cut up the apples into cubes. Cubes should be about 1 inch square, but there's no need to get all crazy and precise—it's supposed to be rustic.

 

Place the apple chunks into a large mixing bowl. Drizzle on the lemon juice and mix thoroughly. Go ahead and use your hands—Martha Stewart doesn't live here, remember? Sprinkle on the sugar and mix again.

 

Melt the 3 tablespoons of butter in a large, deep sauté pan. Add the apple chunks and cook for 15 minutes over medium heat, stirring constantly. The apples should get soft and tender, but not smooshy (that's a technical term). After 15 minutes, take the pan off the burner, sprinkle the cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice on top of the apple chunks, and stir. Set aside to cool. Now would be a great time to check your e-mail and your favorite celebrity gossip blog.

 

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

 

No more stalling—it's time to roll out the crust. Gather your materials: a sturdy rolling pin or dowel, a small bowl of all-purpose flour, a long offset metal spatula, a glass pie plate (about 9 inches in diameter), a cheese grater, and a large cutting board or clean countertop. Resist the urge to break out the premade crust you bought at the grocery store under cover of night, and remember: There's no crying in pie baking.

 

Retrieve the larger dough disk from the fridge and dust your work surface with flour. Starting from the center of the disk, roll the dough into a circle large enough to cover the entire pie plate and drape over the sides. The rolled dough should be thin enough for you to see a patterned cutting board underneath. Ideally, you want your crust to have visible butter striations. If you can't see them at first, have another glass of wine and check again.

 

Place the crust into the pie plate. You could try rolling it onto your rolling pin like wrapping paper and then “unwrapping” it into your pie plate. Or you could scrape it up with the offset spatula, fold it in half lengthwise and then into quarters, and unfold it in the pie plate. Trim off any excess dough hanging over the rim of the plate.

 

Using a slotted spoon, transfer the apple chunks from the sauté pan into the crust. Discard any leftover liquid in the pan—do not pour it into the pie. Use the spoon to press down on the apple chunks and pack them in tightly.

 

Place the pie on a metal cookie sheet (bonus points if you put a silicone baking mat between the tray and the pie plate). Bake at 400 degrees for 20 minutes. **
Note: Baking time varies wildly depending on the eccentricities of your particular oven.
**

 

While the pie is baking, retrieve the remaining ball of dough from the fridge and grate it. Yes, really. Pretend you're preparing a block of mozzarella for pizza topping.

 

After 20 minutes, remove the pie from the oven and sprinkle a thin layer of grated dough across the top of the apples. See? It really is just like making pizza. Try to cover all the exposed apples, and don't forget the edges. Pop the pie back into the oven and bake for an additional 20–25 minutes.

 

Try to restrain yourself long enough to avoid scorching your tongue, then grab a fork and dig in. Feign modesty when everyone in your house raves about your culinary genius after they recover from their paroxysms of pastry-induced bliss. Imagine Martha Stewart writhing with envy. Realize that you have now used up everything in your refrigerator and go out for dinner. Your work here is done.

“
H
oney, I hope my luck is half as hot as you are,” slurred the Hawaiian-shirted frat boy as he studied the pair of cards in front of him on the casino table. “Hit me.”

Linnie Bialek kept her expression neutral and her eyes lowered as she flipped over the top card in the deck.

The frat boy woo-hooed and high-fived the guy hunched on the stool next to him. “Hit me again!”

“Double down,” intoned the sidekick. “Double dooooown!”

Frat boy pounded the table. “Yeah, okay. I'll double down.”

“I'm sorry, sir, but you no longer have the option to double down; you have more than two cards.” Linnie squirmed as the top of her leopard-print bustier dug into the tender skin under her arms. This corset, along with black satin hot pants, fishnet stockings, black patent-leather Mary Jane pumps, and furry cat ears comprised her outfit as a dealer in the “Kitty Korner,” the casino's newest marketing ploy: a secluded, cordoned-off area for high rollers who liked a bit of T & A served up along with their complimentary cocktails.

“If I get twenty-one, can I buy you a drink?”

Linnie shook her head. “I'm not allowed to accept drinks from customers.”

He stopped hooting and hollering and started to pout. “Are you allowed to smile, at least?”

Linnie tried to force her features into a happy expression. She slapped down the top card with a little extra vigor. “Bust. House wins.”

She stepped back from the table and made way for Sasha, the olive-skinned brunette who'd materialized next to her. “That's it; my shift's over. Best of luck to you both.”

Linnie brushed off her hands and splayed her fingers so that the tiny bubble “eye in the sky” could ascertain that she hadn't palmed anything during play. Then she slipped past the velvet ropes and into the crowds playing slots.

“Honey!” Hawaiian Shirt howled after her. “Wait! Come back and I'll give you a tip you'll never forget!”

Please. As if she'd ever look twice at a man who hit on seventeen when the dealer was showing a four. There wasn't enough alcohol in the world to excuse that level of dumb-assery.

After working at the blackjack tables for several months, Linnie knew she should be accustomed to reckless bets, but she never ceased to be shocked by how poorly most people understood the natural order of the universe. Many casino games, like craps, blackjack, poker, and baccarat, were not games of chance at all. If you had even a rudimentary grasp of probability and statistics, you could beat the house, provided you were patient and rational in your approach.

But people didn't want a clean, calculated formula for winning. They wanted “luck.”

Well, Linnie didn't believe in luck. She believed in logic.

As she strode toward the employee locker room, her heel caught on a loose flap of rug, and she stumbled into a young couple watching the action at a craps table.

“Sorry.” She steadied herself, then leaned down to adjust the ankle strap of her shoe.

The male half of the couple did a double take when she straightened up. “Hey. Don't I know you from somewhere?”

“I don't think so.” Linnie studied the couple's features, trying to place them. He was short and pudgy, but his charcoal gray suit was obviously expensive, cut to camouflage an imperfect physique. His companion was a willowy redhead clad in a Grecian-inspired white minidress that looked fresh off the rack from one of the Strip's couture shops.

“I know I know you,” the guy went on. “What's your name? It's Russian, right? Kind of weird and unpronounceable?”

The longer she stared at him, the more familiar he looked. Linnie lowered her gaze. “I think you have me confused with someone else.”

“I'm Sam Janowitz,” he said.

She shrugged one shoulder. “Doesn't ring any bells.”

Sam snapped his fingers. “I've got it. Science enrichment camp. Palo Alto, late nineties. You're the girl who whupped all the boys at chess, right?”

“No.”
Not anymore.

“Vaseline! Your name sounds like Vaseline.”

“Vasylina,” Linnie corrected faintly. She ducked her head so she wouldn't have to watch his expression, which vacillated between disbelief and pity. “And it's Polish, not Russian.”

There was a long pause; then he coughed. “So you, gosh, you work here now, huh?” Sam opened and closed his mouth a few times before finally saying, “I went to school for aerospace engineering, but then I sold out and joined up with a hedge fund firm in Manhattan.” He fiddled with his cuff links. “I'm out here for a corporate retreat. This is my wife, Mia.”

“Nice to meet you.” Linnie nodded at the redhead but didn't extend her hand.

Mia gave her a quick once-over, took in the polyester corset and the cleavage, and managed a trace of a smile. “I like your ears. Very frisky.”

“We're late for our dinner reservations. We'd better get going.” Sam tugged his wife forward and stole one last glance back over his shoulder. “Great seeing you. Good luck with everything.”

“You, too.” Linnie remained rooted to the carpet.

As Sam turned away, she heard him exclaim to his wife, “That girl is like Doogie Howser trapped in Barbie's body. No exaggeration. She started college when she was fourteen.”

Mia sniffed. “Then why is she dressed like a day-shift call girl?”

“Beats me. But I'm telling you, back then, she was Little Miss Priss with an ego the size of a particle accelerator. She told everyone she was going to finish her MD before she was old enough to drink. I wonder what the hell happened to her.”

 

“
D
on't freak out about the smell. I can explain.” Linnie froze in her apartment doorway, keys in hand. She had been looking forward to curling up in her pajamas and unwinding with an iced coffee and a DVD of the Met's production of
Manon Lescaut
. By herself.

But her roommate, Kyle, was sprawled out across the sofa, peering up at her through shaggy blond bangs with a sheepish smile on his face and a bottle of Febreze in his hand. He looked like a puppy who'd spent the afternoon shredding a box of Kleenex and scattering the wreckage all over the house.

“What happened in here?” She stepped into the living room, surveying the splintered coffee table, crumpled cans of beer, and mysterious new stains on the carpet.

“A bunch of the guys came over. It was my turn to host the VGOs.”

“VGOs?”

“Video Game Olympics. We do it every year. My brother, Derek, even drove in from SoCal.” Kyle struggled up into a sitting position to get a better look at her new work uniform. “Why are you dressed like a slutty cat?”

She instinctively tried to cover herself from his stare, but between the exposed cleavage, the exposed thighs, and the semi-exposed bottom, she didn't have enough hands. “I started my new job today, remember?”

Kyle let out a whistle of appreciation. “Well, you look
fiiine
. I had no idea you had an ass like that.”

She pinned him with a glacial glare. “Don't you ever look at my ass again.”

He looked away, muttering, “Someone needs to lighten up.”

She stalked across the living room to the apartment's tiny kitchen, perused the nearly empty cupboard shelves, and tossed a bag of artificially flavored butter popcorn in the microwave for dinner. “How long have we known each other? Ten years? Twelve? If I were going to lighten up, it would have happened by now.”

Linnie had first met Kyle when she responded to a classified ad for an economics tutor. At sixteen, she'd just dropped out of a top-rated university, and at nineteen, he'd just enrolled in community college. On the surface, the two of them couldn't have been more different. Kyle had enjoyed a brief bout of fame and fortune when he was seven years old, hamming it up in a series of national potato chip commercials. Though he'd never landed another major role after that, his parents had yanked him out of public school to appear at an endless series of casting calls and auditions. He and Linnie had both missed out on a huge, formative piece of their childhoods, and their student-tutor dynamic had evolved into an unlikely camaraderie. Two years ago, after finally being dropped by his Manhattan talent agency, Kyle had relocated to Vegas to take a role in a murder mystery dinner theater, and he'd persuaded Linnie to join him (he'd claimed he valued her companionship, but she suspected he just needed help making rent).