The grass looks so much greener in the morning, she thinks, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes with her closed fists. She’s standing on the upper porch of the log cabin-style building that’s perched so close to the edge of the lake it looks, from certain angles if you’re driving past, like it’s about to tip slowly over and sink gracefully into the reedy marsh.
She wipes half-heartedly at an apple with the tail end of her t-shirt: a white short-sleeved cotton shirt with TOWSON LACROSSE emblazoned across the front in bumblebee yellow. The shirt is one of her most prized pieces of clothing right now because, after three years of constant wearing and washing, it’s reached a nearly threadbare texture that makes it fall loosely, like silk, against her shoulders. The only other shirts she has that are this thin—holes threatening to rip in the most worn areas under the armpits and near the top seams—are her mom’s: a Boston Marathon finisher t-shirt from the 70s, an old green shirt from the Burpee Seed catalog that reads “Because a Rind is a Terrible Thing to Waste,” and a faded marine blue Lacoste polo with a white collar.
She can tell already that the day is going to be hot and sticky. It’s July, and it usually rains in the early hours of the morning—the clouds blowing in low over the gentle peaks of Mount Morgan and Mount Percival, dropping their moisture as they move north, the drops skittering across the surface of the lake in a percussive rhythm—and even hours after dawn, the earth feels swollen with moisture.
A crash sounds from somewhere below her feet, followed by some indistinct swearing and more clanging. Her roommate Luke, she thinks. Every morning he drops the coffee pot in the exact same place on the battered wooden countertop as he tries to clumsily add the grounds, spilling coffee everywhere. As a result, their tiny kitchen smells faintly yet permanently of Green Mountain Sumatra Reserve dark roast.
Tall and gangly with long strawberry blond dreadlocks that peek out from under a knitted hat, Luke inhabits his body like a teenager who has just gone through a growth spurt—as if his mind hasn’t caught up with his unwieldy limbs—even though he’s 28. When he introduced himself in late May to her, he seemed both shy and deeply funny, as if he was always smiling about something but didn’t want anyone to see, so his mouth would quirk upwards like he was swallowing back his merriment. He told her he was from Alaska and she said, “Oh!” involuntarily, then felt embarrassed for no reason for that response. She pictured a boy who grew up in Alaska as brawny and confident—hardened by winters trudging over ice and stripping seal blubber effortlessly with a pocket knife. Seriously? she thinks to herself. Grow up! That’s the plot of a chapter book you read in sixth grade.
One night they all go to a restaurant called The Common Man, just a few miles away in Ashland. The restaurant reminds her of dinners in Wyoming on family vacations in the mess hall at the dude ranch they visited for a week in summers; it’s all dark wood and a long bar with curvy glasses full of beer and laminated menus full of sturdy dishes like bacon onion burgers and pot roast and steak salads so heavily topped with croutons that the lettuce appears to be groaning under the weight of it all. Everything comes with French fries.
The restaurant is cheery and boisterous with live music in the corner and enough noise that she doesn’t worry about making small talk, which is good, because she’s surrounded by brand new people and not sure where to begin with conversation. As outgoing as she is, this is a lot of unfamiliarity, and she’s not even old enough to order a beer yet to have something to do with her hands.
Luke orders a Long Trail Vermont IPA and drinks it in what seems like one long sip, pulling the liquid from the bottle in a languid gulp. He drinks another, then stands up abruptly and waves, pulling a guitar case from behind his chair.
She didn’t even notice that he had a guitar, much less had carried it into the restaurant. She watches as he walks over to the small stage and leans in to talk to someone. It’s an open mic night, she realizes, as he sits down in a chair and settles the guitar in his lap. He starts to play—his thin fingers moving in an almost unconscious pattern over the frets—and he transforms into a different person. His voice is low and husky and sweet—it’s beautiful, and any trace of the clumsy discomfort in his body disappears.
But when he’s not singing, he’s the same Luke: knocking over coffee, dropping his paddle off the side of their kayak, spilling buckets of nails when they’re out hammering down loose boards on the floating docks by the sailing school.
Even his cursing makes her laugh, like the sound that rises up again this morning from below. It’s probably something like jiminy cricket or thunderation! — he’s too gentle for anything beyond PG-level irritation.
Five bites in, and the apple is only making her hungrier. She sits down in an Adirondack chair, steepling her knees and absent-mindedly twisting her hair up and down and back up again into a messy knot. Her hair is a point of pride: thick and long and shiny. It’s a glossy chestnut color, but she was white blond until she was five and every summer the sun bleaches the flyaways, leaving buttery blonde streaks across her head that disappear by October, as if it still holds a muscle memory of being a towheaded and blue-eyed toddler.
She could ride her bike to the gas station for an egg and cheese, but she doesn’t like the rolls they use, which are as puffy as styrofoam and nearly as tasteless. There’s probably a quarter of a box of the Ezekiel cinnamon raisin cereal her roommate Kate buys, eating it messily by the handful before rugby games and leaving crumbs that tickle her bare feet on the walk to the bathroom, but that’s nearly as unappealing as the egg sandwich.
Last night she drank three Sam Adams summer citrus ales and her stomach is churning unpleasantly, either from hunger or the alcohol or both. They had driven over to the bigger town on nearby Lake Winnipesaukee to eat dinner out on the sand at Town Docks: a bustling snack shack that specializes in chicken tenders and fried scallops and the kind of casual picnic table experience that draws every harried vacationing family with kids within a ten-mile radius.
She hears a click behind her and turns to see her boss Brett sliding open the glass doors to the porch. He’s sweating slightly and she notices his mountain bike propped against the front of the building. “Where’s Cinjin?” she asks, wondering how his wiry-looking black dog will get to work. The dog follows him everywhere like a shadow, picking her way up the miles of trails when they go out to paint fresh blazes in the Chamberlain-Reynolds Memorial Forest or standing at attention by the steering wheel when he drives the pontoon boat out to check on the campsites on the opposite side of the lake.
“Home,” he says quickly, as he drops a foil-wrapped package on the arm of her chair. She looks up at him, grinning, then peels off the wrapper to find a toasted sesame bagel—still warm—the butter half-melted and soaking the surface of the bread.
He walks away without letting her say thank you. It’s only been a month, but she’s familiar with his quietude. He talks in short, deliberate phrases, but she oddly feels closer to him than people she’s known for years. In the past 12 months—her freshman year in college—she can count on one hand the number of people she’d be comfortable sitting in silence with, watching the sun sink down over the water like a scoop of orange sherbet melting slowly, then quickly, under the heat of the day. But she does that often with him and sometimes her roommates; it feels restful for her otherwise busy mind. She’s in a state of flux, as one tends to be at the age of 19, both confident in her enthusiasms and deeply malleable to new influences and people.
The bagel is perfect. Burnished and almost leathery on the outside with a chewy, yeasty interior. She likes the kind of bagel that you have to work at—not just white bread shaped into a circle.
Sesame seeds fall in a flurry onto her lap and she brushes them off after her last bite, balling the greasy foil up and tucking it into the waistband of her running shorts.
Today will be something, she thinks. And she stands up to begin.
**This is my current favorite bagel recipe, which comes from the very talented Martin Philip at King Arthur. The recipe is also in his book Breaking Bread which I highly recommend for both recipes, baking guidance, and stories. I sometimes use bread flour and sometimes all-purpose—either will work, but if you sub in bread flour, pay attention to the hydration as you may need a bit more liquid since bread flour absorbs more than AP.
**If you have it, use non-diastatic malt powder in place of the molasses for the water bath—it’ll give the bagels the most authentic flavor.
Bagels
From King Arthur Baking
Poolish
1 1/4 cups + 2 tablespoons (166g) all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon instant yeast
3/4 cup + 2 tablespoons (198g) lukewarm water
Dough
1 1/2 cups (340g) lukewarm water
5 1/2 cups (663g) all-purpose flour
2 3/4 teaspoons (17g) salt
3/4 teaspoon instant yeast
Water Bath
2 tablespoons (43g) molasses
1 tablespoon (18g) salt
Toppings, your choice
Make the poolish: Stir together the flour and yeast, then mix in the water. Cover and let sit at room temperature for 8 hours (you can get away with less time, but the more time it sits, the more flavor the bagels will have—know that this is not an exact time frame, just aim for close to 8 hours and if it’s a little more or a little less, no worries).
Make the dough: Mix together the poolish with the water, stirring to combine roughly. Add the flour, salt, and yeast and mix on low in a stand mixer until the dough comes together but doesn’t look smooth (it’ll be rough but should be in one mass).
Place the dough in a large mixing bowl, covered, and let it rest at room temperature for about an hour. After that hour, uncover the bowl and use both hands to lift the dough up—starting with the edge furthest from you—and fold it over onto itself. Rotate the bowl 90 degrees and repeat, until you’ve stretched and folded four times.
Cover the bowl and let it rise for another hour.
After the second hour, transfer the bowl to the refrigerator and let it chill for at least 12 hours (you can also leave it for longer—it’ll just develop more flavor).
After the chilled rest, place the dough on the countertop and let it sit at room temperature for 1 to 2 hours to warm up slightly.
Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and divide it into about 12 equal pieces. Don’t stress too much about the number of pieces, just try to keep them all roughly the same size so they bake at the same rate.
Pre-shape each piece of dough into a ball by cupping your hand loosely over the top and rolling your hand around it until it forms a smooth ball—I like to do this on an unfloured surface because the tension of the dough on the counter “catches” it slightly and acts as an anchor while you roll.
Let the dough balls rest at room temperature for about 15 minutes—this relaxes the gluten and makes the dough a little friendlier to work with.
Next, shape the bagels! Working with one piece at a time, poke a hole through the center of the dough ball. Use your fingers to stretch the hole out, rotating the circle around with two fingers, until the hole is about 3” wide. It’ll look too wide at first, but that’s good, because it’ll shrink down slightly.
Place the bagels on a lightly floured surface (or one dusted with cornmeal), and let them rest at room temperature for about 20 minutes while you get ready to bake.
Preheat the oven to 475°F. I always bake my bagels on parchment-lined baking sheets but a baking stone or steel is great too if you have one—if you do, preheat it in the oven as the oven heats.
While the oven is preheating, get your toppings ready by placing them in a wide, shallow bowl or deep plate. You can do sesame seeds, everything bagel seasoning, flaky salt, poppyseeds—whatever you’re into.
Bring a large pot of water to boil (it should have about 4” of water but you don’t need much more than that—aim for 2 quarts of water in a large shallow pot). It’s easier to use a shallow pot so you don’t have to use a ton of water, and you can more easily transfer the bagels in and out.
Once boiling, add the molasses (or non-diastatic malt power if you have it) and salt.
Working very carefully, use a slotted spoon or spatula or bench knife to transfer a few bagels at a time to the water bath. Boil them for 30 seconds, then flip them over and boil for another minute.
Remove the bagels from the water—I like to sort of jiggle them a bit in mid-air to get rid of some of the excess liquid—then place them on a parchment-lined baking sheet.
Dip one side of each bagel into the toppings, then place it topping-side-up back on the baking sheet. Repeat the boiling and topping process until you have a full baking sheet, then bake for 20 to 25 minutes, or until the bagels are a deep, dark golden brown.
Repeat with the remaining shaped bagels.
EAT. Bagels freeze beautifully.