The problem with inherited bakeries is that they come with inherited equipment. Specifically, they come with an oven that appears to have been forged by someone with extremely strong opinions about temperature and no interest in consistency.
Edna named it Lucifer. Looking at it now, I understand why.
My phone alarm chirps. Croissants. Right. I pull the laminated dough from the fridge—three days of folding and chilling, precise work that calmed my anxiety until this moment—and transfer it to the pastry bench Jace must have left sometime overnight—I found it when I unlocked the bakery this morning, set against the prep wall like it had always been there, solid and exact and the right height for laminated dough. It's beautiful enough to make my chest tight. I'm trying not to think about his hands making it.
The technique is all instinct: egg wash, cut into triangles, stretch each one just enough, roll from the base to the point. I've done this five thousand times in Austin. I've done this hungover,sleep-deprived, mid-panic attack about Marco's indiscretions. I can do this.
Except Lucifer has other plans.
I set the oven for 400 degrees—the temperature my notes demand—and slide the sheet in. The croissants look perfect. Even, glossy, with that pristine spiral I know will puff to golden. I set the timer for eighteen minutes.
Twelve minutes in, I smell something.
Not the good smell of butter caramelizing. The smell of butter carbonizing. Burning. Black-ended.
I yank the oven door open. The croissants are charred at the edges like someone held them over a campfire. The interiors are barely baked.
"What the—" I pull them out, stare at them, stare at the oven. The temperature dial says 425. It said 400. I watched it. I'm not losing my mind. Okay, I might be losing my mind, but not about this.
I text Dotty:
Me: Did Edna's oven have a personality disorder?
The reply takes three minutes:
Dotty: Charming sense of humor. Prefers 375. Runs hot.
Runs hot. Fantastic. I have an oven with trust issues and an opinion about optimal temperature.
For the next attempt, I dial it to 365. Dotty said 375, but Dotty hasn't just cremated a full sheet of croissants this morning. I'm going lower. I'm being humble. I'm going to let Lucifer win this round so we can develop a healthier dynamic.
Twenty-two minutes later, the croissants are pale. Barely golden. The butter hasn't really done its thing—they're more bread-adjacent than croissant. Dough felt, texture-wise, like something a toddler would chew on and eventually spit out.
I slide them onto the cooling rack and want to scream. Instead, I scream internally, which is much more professional, and rifle through the walk-in for salvage options.
This is the part of cooking where you pivot. Where you stop pretending the vision will work and start looking at what you have.
There's half a side of salmon in the walk-in—the one Jace left on the cabin porch the other morning. I'd moved it here when I came in, not sure what I was going to do with it. I'd been suspicious of it. He doesn't seem like someone who leaves things without reason, and he doesn't seem like someone who wastes anything, so the salmon must mean something. The salmon is supposed to mean something.
Scones. Savory scones. It's ridiculous. It's desperate. It's the move that either becomes your signature or becomes a story you tell badly at parties.
"Scones," I mutter, grabbing cream and flour and buttermilk. "You're doing scones. Salmon scones. Your brand now. Embrace the chaos."
The scone dough comes together fast—flour, baking powder, salt, cold butter cut into pea-sized pieces with a knife because the food processor is too aggressive, too eager. I work butter into the flour until it looks like breadcrumbs, which is chef-speak for "don't overthink it."
The salmon gets flaked into chunks. I fold in fresh dill, a pinch of smoked paprika, some zest from a lemon left in the bowl in the refrigerator. Desperate improvisation.
I add the buttermilk, form the dough on a floured board, cut it into wedges, and get them on the sheet before I lose my nerve.
365 degrees. Lucifer's preference. If he's going to burn my stuff, at least he can be consistent about it.
Fourteen minutes. They rise. They're golden. I pull them out and set one on the cooling rack, waiting for it to cool enough to taste. Steam curls off the top.
The smell is completely different than I expected. Buttery. Herbaceous. The salmon isn't overpowering—it's woven through like a secret.
I wait. Tap my fingers on the counter. Check my phone. Reorganize the cooling racks. Wait more.
After six minutes, I break one open. It's still warm inside, steam rising in a small cloud. The crumb is tender—not too dense, not too light. The salmon is flaky and distinct. The dill is bright. The paprika adds this subtle smoke underneath everything.