Page 44 of Penalty Kiss
“Batter first. Three cups flour, two tablespoons sugar, half teaspoon salt, and one-and-a-half teaspoons yeast.” He winks. “Or cheat with pancake mix if you’re starving.”
“Water?” I ask, despite myself.
“Lukewarm,” he answers, pouring. “One and three quarters cups, give or take. You want it thick, sticky. Rise it an hour. Cold rest if you’ve got time.” He taps the pan. “Hotel pan for easy dipping. Trust me.”
He happily drags a tray of mozzarella sticks from the walk-in refrigerator.
“Low-moisture mozz—bistro staple.” he says. “Cut ‘em into sticks. Pat them dry.” He points at the hot dogs. “Halve those.”
I follow exactly.
“Now, skewer time—cheese-only, dog-only, or half-and-half with cheese on top so it melts over the dog.”
“Skewers?” Mrs. W echoes faintly.
“Metal or wooden, both work.”
I find myself automatically pointing to the pantry. “Top shelf.”
He grins. “That’s my girl.” His voice is low, for me alone, making my heart flutter.
"Now, this batter needs to rise. Mrs. W, got a warm spot around here? Maybe near the oven? An hour, just for it to get puffy. Or, if we want it thicker, we'll refrigerate it after it rises." He turns to me. "What do you think, Tara? Thick or fluffy?"
"Fluffy," I say, my voice softer than I intend. The way he asked, seeking my opinion, makes it feel important.
He nods decisively. "Fluffy it is. Myhalmeoni, grandma, always says the best things in life need time to rise." His eyes dance with mischief.
Then he pauses, looking around. "And hash browns. We need hash browns."
Tyler pipes up. "We have frozen shredded hash browns in the freezer, Mr. Wilder!"
"Perfect!" Cam beams. "We'll pulse them in the food processor to get them diced. Or, Tara, your call—we can dice a fresh russet potato and cook it 'til it's tender, just a few minutes."
"Frozen is faster," I suggest, still watching his hands. They are large, calloused, the hands of a hockey player, yet they movewith precision and care. He’s utterly absorbed, a stark contrast to his boisterous public persona, and it’s mesmerizing.
“Faster it is,” he agrees, already directing Tyler to the freezer.
He skewers the hot dogs and cheese sticks with expert ease, arranging them strategically. "All-cheese, all-hot dog, or half-and-half with the cheese on top—the classics," he notes, his gaze briefly finding mine. His eyes hold a deeper intensity now, a focused energy that makes the air between us crackle.
As the batter rises, he gets the oil ready. "Deep pot, at least two inches of oil, heated to three-fifty to three-sixty-five Fahrenheit," he instructs, his voice confident.
Then comes the assembly. He dips a chilled skewer into the puffy batter, twisting it to get a thick, even coating. Then, he rolls it in the diced hash browns, pressing gently, before rolling it in the crushed panko. His big hands mold the coating, creating a uniform, enticing shape.
He lines up the skewers like soldiers. “Pro move: chill them. Cold cheese holds its nerve when it hits the oil.”
He lowers it into the oil. The sizzle sings.
“Five to eight minutes,” he says, turning it with tongs until it’s the exact shade of golden that makes your mouth water. “Drain on a rack. And this is important—while it’s still hot…”
He showers it in a light drift of granulated sugar between his fingers. The crew leans in to listen to the crust crackle while my chest does an inexplicable little flip.
He makes three more, then passes the first to Mrs. Whitmore on a piece of butcher paper. “Taste test belongs to the boss,” he says, entirely earnest.
“My word,” she gasps, cheese stretching from the inside. “Damn you, Wilder,” which in Mrs. Whitmore is the highest Michelin rating she offers.
“Now, for the best Rookie in the league,” he murmurs, his gaze soft and intense.
I take a bite. And his eyes visibly darken.
