Greg Van Helsing had been assigned to the position of judge for Peter Mayhew’s bake off, and he was in a sour mood. Peter’s competition was a sweet old woman named Victoria who was the head of the neighborhood HoA. She was a plump old bird with thick round glasses and a no-nonsense attitude. Peter and Victoria were both obsessed with some British reality television show about amateur bakers and decided to have their own little bake off. It was a Tuesday afternoon and Greg had very little luck in his attempt to find a monster hunting contract as an excuse to get out of an event that he had less than no interest in. And so, to pass the time while they worked, Greg took out and began cleaning one of his guns.
The pair of amateur bakers set up stations in the kitchen using caution tape to separate the two sides. They established a four-hour limit to complete their bakes: a savory, braided loaf of bread. Looking down at the already meticulously cleaned weapon on the table in front of him, Greg’s upper lip curled. He had a very long four hours ahead of him. After disassembling the firearm into its individual components, Greg glanced up to check on the competitors.
Vicky was a whirlwind of flour, floral patterned clothing, and positivity. Only a few minutes into their competition, her side of the kitchen was an absolute mess, ingredients everywhere, the counters a flour coated warzone of egg whites and rosemary. Peter, on the other hand, moved deliberately and precisely, his station neat as a button. He was wearing his Snoop Dog and Martha Stewart apron and, for Vicky’s sake, he even put on a pair of khakis and a navy blue polo instead of cooking in the buff. His side of the kitchen was clean and organized, the mess he made with each step was promptly cleaned with the skss skss skss of Peter’s bleach spray before he moved onto the next thing.
An hour into the competition, Greg found himself watching Peter and Vicky work, his already clean gun left forgotten on the table. He couldn’t explain why, if asked, but he found the odd pair competing in the Mayhew’s kitchen transfixing. Peter was dancing poorly at his station, Victoria now coated in a patchy coat of flour, and Flapjack was waiting nearby to snatch up any morsels that reached his domain. The corgi sprinted in, retrieved anything that touched the floor, and then promptly sprinted out of the station like a ball boy in a tennis match. Inexplicably entertaining already, Greg found himself craving popcorn as the drama began to really ratchet up.
The large bowl containing Vicky’s prepared dough slipped from her grip as she moved it from one counter to another. The dough she spent an hour mixing and kneading to perfection hit the tile with a wet slap. Frustrated, sweating profusely, she threw the dough into the bin, pulled another carton of eggs out of the cooler she had packed her ingredients into, and furiously began working to make another. Because Peter had given him a quick rundown of what an ideal bread should look like, and followed that with a very lengthy explanation about the intricacies of each step involved, Greg began to worry that Victoria wouldn’t have enough time to let the dough proof.
The drama continued to build as both Peter and Victoria zipped about the kitchen at incredible speeds, reaching a fever pitch when Peter made to put his bread into the oven only to find that he’d forgotten to set it to preheat. Greg watched nervously, leaning forward in his seat to see what Peter would do now that his dough was at risk of over proofing. Unfortunately, all he could do was wait for the oven to heat up and hope for the best. Greg snickered to himself each time he saw Peter eyeing the chaotic mess that Victoria’s station had become. He could almost feel Peter’s overwhelming desire to clean it up, made worse as he was forced to simply wait for his oven to get up to temperature.
When the kitchen timer beeped, indicating that only 30 minutes remained, the competitors were both coated in a layer of glossy sweat. Peter’s oven chirped, the preheating process complete, just as Victoria hurriedly braided her finished dough. At almost the exact same time, each of them put their bakes into their ovens. Peter squatted low, weight on his toes as he watched the oven nervously. After a few minutes, he got up and stretched his calves using the counter as leverage, and then began pacing like an expectant father in the operating room. He crouched to look into the oven again with only 10 minutes remaining on the clock, then resumed pacing, his expression that of a man on a fence. He seemed to have reached a conclusion and increased the temperature of the oven. Victoria had collapsed into a chair and was patting the sweat from her forehead with a floral handkerchief. Greg watched both with amusement. The wonderful combination of smells filling the house was starting to make his mouth water with anticipation. With only seconds left on the clock, they each pulled their bread from the ovens. Because he had home field advantage, Peter insisted that Victoria be the first to present her bread.
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“I have made for you today,” she said with the same rehearsed words Greg had heard from the amateur bakers on Peter’s television program, “a rosemary and thyme cranberry challah.”
She placed the piping hot bread on the kitchen table in front of Greg and stepped back to stand beside Peter. Though he was a far cry from being some kind of culinary critic, Greg was impressed with what he saw. The loaf was a lovely golden brown. Its surface was glossy and sprinkled evenly with what Greg was fairly certain were sesame seeds. The rich mixture of herbs and heavenly yeasty aroma of the bread resulted in a scent that took Greg back to the early days of his life, wrapped up in a thick, warm blanket beside a fire on a cold winter night. Unable to wait any longer, he pulled off a piece and took a bite. If he had been impressed by the aesthetics of Vicky’s bread, he was absolutely blown away by the texture and flavor profile. Even though she’d had to make the dough twice, Vicky pulled a rabbit out of her hat with this one.
“It seems well proofed,” Greg said gruffly. Of course he was enjoying every blissful moment of being treated to this bread, but he had a persona to maintain, and so he kept the pleasure from showing on his face. He austerely picked the rest of the loaf up off the table and ran a knife, his oversized, serrated monstrosity of a hunting knife, along its crust. “The bake is good. Flavors are good. I think you’ve made a good loaf, Victoria.”
“Thank you,” Victoria said, stepping forward to remove the remainder of the loaf from the table.
Peter turned to pick his loaf of braided bread up from the counter and then placed it on the table before Greg. The braid was intricate, much moreso than Vicky’s had been, and the aroma it gave off was incredible. Unlike Vicky’s loaf, however, Peter’s braided bread had sunken down on itself. His blunder with the oven caused it to have over-proofed.
“And I have made for you today a babka inspired pesto bread with pancetta, onions, garlic, and parmesan.”
“Mhmm,” Greg pulled a piece from the loaf, frowning as the dough stretched like a toffee. Not only was it over-proofed, it was under baked as well. “I noticed you increased the temperature of your oven,” he said, not particularly phrasing it like a question but he let it stand.
“I did,” Peter said. He was rocking uncomfortably from foot to foot. “I was worried it wouldn’t be in for long enough.”
“Your worry was well founded,” Greg said, pointing with one hand at the still-wet dough stretching as the other continued pulling until it finally came free. Not looking forward to it, but taking his duty as the judge of this event seriously, Greg took a bite. It almost hurt him physically how bad the texture was, but only because the flavors were astonishing. The salt from the pancetta and parmesan balanced the sweetness of the sautéed onions perfectly. He swallowed and then gave Peter an apologetic look before continuing. “The flavor is good. The braid is good. I think you would have really had something special here, Peter. Unfortunately, and over-proofed, underbaked loaf is just not going to be enough with competition like Victoria.”
Peter hung his head, shoulders drooping. Victoria put one arm around his waist comfortingly. Greg stood up, patted Peter on the back for a solid effort, and then lifted Victoria's arm into the air like she’d just won the heavyweight championship fight.
“I declare the victor of this competition to be Victoria. Congratulations, young lady,” he said.
He shook her hand, and then, together, the three of them watched an episode of the stupid cooking show while devouring the rest of Victoria’s loaf of bread. Greg Van Helsing did not, and would not at any point, admit to thoroughly enjoying his wasted Tuesday afternoon.