the ribbon king's last secret

Let me start by saying I'm twenty-eight years old and I have never lost a pie competition on purpose, which will matter later. Also I have a burner email account now, which is a sentence I never thought I'd type about myself.

Here's how it started. Tuesday afternoon at the Maplewood County Fair, I'm selling slices at the pie stall under the striped awning like always, and Delores from the pork chop stand leans over and says, "You know who's judging Best-in-Show this year?"

I said who. She said Jacques. Jacques Marchand. Former fair champion, current head judge, man with a jawline that probably has its own ribbon.

I want you to understand something. Four years ago, before he was head judge, Jacques and I did a casual charity bake-off at the harvest dinner. I trounced him. Apple versus his cherry, blind tasting, and my apple won by a landslide. He shook my hand and said, "Enjoy it while it lasts," with a smile that I have thought about maybe six hundred times since. And now the man holds my ribbon in his hands.

So naturally I did the reasonable thing. I made a burner email account under the name Doris Riggs and wrote to his official judge address that night.

Subject: question about judging criteria

Dear Mr. Marchand,

I am a humble competitor with a question. As a nervous first-time entrant (this is a lie, I have entered nine times), I wonder how much weight you give to, say, innovative crust techniques? Asking for a friend. The friend is me. I mean the friend is a competitor. Anyway, crust. How do you feel about crust?

Sincerely, Doris

I hit send and felt like a genius and a criminal at the same time. I lay awake until two thinking about it. Was that unhinged? Yes. Did I care? Also yes, but differently.

He replied Wednesday morning, fast, all formal.

Dear Ms. Riggs,

Thank you for your inquiry. Judging criteria are standardized and available at the exhibition hall. All entries are evaluated blind, on crumb, filling, crust integrity, and overall flavor. Personal history plays no role in my scoring.

Regards, J. Marchand, Head Judge

Then the postscript. "P.S. Unusual crust techniques will be noted, Ms. Riggs. The latticework on the apple entry, should it appear again, is quite distinctive. A blind judge still has eyes, doesn't he?"

I read that standing in the pie stall with a tray of peach slices and I nearly dropped the whole thing. Doris. He knew. He knew it was me on day one. And instead of calling me out publicly, which would've been the sane thing, he'd answered my fake email anyway and then winked at me through a postscript.

Well. What was I supposed to do, stop? Be normal? No. I doubled down, obviously.

Subject: a friendly challenge, from your humble Doris

Mr. Marchand,

Since you've clearly cracked my secret identity (well done, truly, gold star, please award yourself a ribbon), I'll drop the act. Fact one: my apple pie beat your cherry pie in front of forty witnesses in 2021. Fact two: my crust is flakier, my filling is spiced with actual care, and my top crust has a weave pattern people photograph. Fact three: you said "enjoy it while it lasts" and I have. Four years and counting! Fact four: this is a friendly challenge and also a threat. See you Saturday.

D. (not Doris)

I hit send before the coward part of my brain could stop me. Then I refreshed my inbox about nine hundred times during the lunch rush. A woman asked me for a fork and I said "any minute now" and gave her a spork.

His reply came at 4:40.

Subject: re: a friendly challenge

Since we're being honest now, fair enough. Enjoy your four years, they were well earned. But you asked what I'd do about crust, so here is my answer, and my dare. Below is my salted caramel surprise recipe. I developed it the winter after that bake-off, in a bad mood, and it has never placed lower than second. Bake it. Bake it and put it against your apple on Saturday. If mine beats yours under a blind tasting, you owe me a public admission at the awards tent. If yours wins, I'll say whatever you want me to say into the microphone.

Your move, Inez.

J.

He attached the recipe. An actual recipe, with measurements, like a man handing over his sword. Salted caramel surprise. The surprise, as far as I could tell reading it three times, was browned butter in the caramel and a pinch of something he'd written as "the good salt, you know the one." Vague. Annoying. Effective.

Did I have anything better to do on a Wednesday night than bake a rival judge's secret pie at midnight in my own kitchen? I did not. I told myself it was reconnaissance. I told myself that at midnight, browning butter, whisking caramel and thinking about his stupid confident sign-off. Your move, Inez. Who talks like that?

The pie came out of the oven at 1:15 a.m. and it looked, and I hate this, it looked fantastic. The caramel had set glossy under the crust, the good salt (I guessed flaky Maldon, and I was right, I know my salts) caught the kitchen light like glitter. I ate one slice standing at the counter in my pajamas and it was dangerously good. Not better than my apple. But dangerously good.

I photographed it. One shot, no caption debate, no second-guessing, just the pie on my scarred counter with the steam still rising. I attached it and typed the only two words that mattered.

Subject: (no subject)

I win.

Sent, 1:31 a.m. I went to bed feeling smug and slightly unhinged, which is my natural state anyway.

His reply was waiting Thursday when I woke up, timestamped 6:02 a.m., because apparently he gets up before the roosters to lose arguments.

Subject: re: I win

That is a handsome pie. I notice you made it. I notice you tasted it, because there is a slice missing in the photo, a slice you cut and ate at, I'd estimate, 1:20 a.m. So it wins, and yet you couldn't