Page 27 of Fall is Brewing

Willa’s pen freezes on the page before she slowly turns her head to look at me. “What are you doing?”

I shrug casually. “I want to hear a little bit about each pie.”

“There’s no spot on the score card to factor in backstories,” she says, low and controlled.

The mom and daughter hovering near the edge of the table exchange a nervous glance.

I offer them an easy smile. “We’re not changing the score sheet,” I assure them. “I’m just curious how you approached your pie.”

Willa’s eyes narrow slightly. I lean forward, elbows on the table. “What inspired you?”

The daughter brightens immediately. “It’s my grandma’s recipe,” she says. “We added brown butter this year.”

Brown butter. That explains the depth.

Willa’s pen moves again despite herself.

The mom gestures nervously toward the crust. “We chill it twice. That’s why it’s flaky.”

I nod thoughtfully. “That’s smart.”

Willa exhales slowly. “We’ll be evaluating strictly on criteria,” she says, tone polite but edged.

“Of course,” I reply.

I take another bite, more deliberately this time. Texture, spice balance, moisture. It’s solid. Familiar. Comforting.

I take the clipboard from Willa and jot a note down. I see her green eyes slide over to glance at it.

Balanced sweetness. Strong crust integrity. Slight underbake on edge.

Her lips press together. Because we both know my notes are spot on.

“This is delicious,” I say warmly. “Your grandma would be proud, I’m sure.”

They retreat a few steps but don’t go far.

Willa sets her pen down for a moment. “If we start letting every entrant pitch their pie,” she says quietly, “this becomes a popularity contest.”

“Only if we let it,” I answer.

Her gaze flicks toward the crowd gathered behind them. “You’re playing to the room,” she says.

“I’m acknowledging the room. There’s a big difference.”

“This isn’t marketing.”

“No,” I agree. “It’s community.”

That seems to land harder than I expect it to. She studies me like she’s trying to recalibrate something she thought she understood. “I care about fairness,” she says.

“Good. So do I.” She looks unconvinced. I lean back slightly, lowering my voice so only she can hear. “You think I want this to look like Calder versus Hartley every time we open our mouths?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Not if we’re smart.”

Her eyes flick down to the clipboard between us. Then back up.