Stir It Up

by Ramin Ganeshram

“Almost there, Anj,” says Linc, turning off the camera and reaching for a cookie. He pulls back his hand, shaking and blowing on his fingers.

  “Didn’t I just say cooling takes five minutes?”

  “That’s for the folks in TV land,” Linc says. “Not the producer!” Reaching forward again, he grabs a cookie and tosses it from hand to hand to cool it off before popping the whole thing in his mouth.

  After five minutes, I use a spatula to carefully take the cookies off the cookie sheet and place them on one of my mother’s special china plates that I’ve taken from the dining room cabinet. I put it down on the table between me and Linc and pour two tall glasses of sorrel, a hibiscus drink that Deema makes every week.

  “Ready when you are,” I tell Linc.

  Linc stands and switches on the camera.

  “Okay, action!” he mumbles around a mouthful of cookie.

  “Here are the finished cookies, hot from the oven,” I say to the camera. I pick one up from the plate and break it in half. The gooey molten chocolate oozes out over my fingers. “You can see the pieces of melted chocolate and coconut inside.” I take a bite and swallow. “Delicious! Especially with a tall, cool glass of sorrel.” I pick up the glass and take a sip. “But for that recipe, you’ll have to tune in next time! Thanks for watching!” I continue to smile brightly at the camera, trying not to blink, until Linc says, “Cut!”

  I let out a deep breath and slump in my chair. “Wow, that was a lot harder than I thought!”

  “Yep, but it will be great!” Linc puts the camera away in his backpack, then hoists the pack onto his shoulder. He heads for the stairs.

  “One sec — you take the cookies home,” I say, rushing to grab a plastic bag.

  “Hey! Cool! Thanks!”

  “Least I could do.”

  I finish cleaning up. They’ll be expecting me down at the restaurant pretty soon.

  Weeks pass with no letter from the Food Network.

  Thanksgiving comes and goes. On the day before Christmas vacation, there’s still no letter from the Food Network.

  Will they ever call me? I felt so sure the video was good — and Linc felt even surer. But now, all I can picture is the people at the Food Network looking at my video and laughing.

  I slide into the cafeteria seat next to Linc and reach into my knapsack for my lunch: leftovers from last night’s pilau, a rice and bean dish with chicken and pieces of pumpkin.

  “Any word?” Linc says.

  “Not yet,” I answer, unwrapping the plastic fork and knife from the paper napkin and beginning to eat. The chicken is so tender it’s practically in shreds. The rice is fluffy but not sticky. The whole thing is good and spicy. I have to drink a lot of water while I eat it. But it’s comfort food. Real good.

  “Oh, well,” I say. I’m trying to be cool, show that it doesn’t bother me. “We tried. I guess it wasn’t good enough.”

  Linc puts down his sandwich. “You’re not fooling me, Anj,” he says. “Just hang tight — you never know.”

  That night and the next day are busy ones at the roti shop, and we close late on Christmas Eve. It’s midnight by the time we drag ourselves home.

  On the way back to our house, Dad and I walk in the cold darkness of December. “Anjali,” he says, “have you been preparing for the Stuyvesant exam? It’s coming up.”

  I’m quiet, thinking. “I know” is all I can manage. Then, “Yeah, I’ve been getting ready.”

  Okay, so I’m lying. But I’ve been thinking about the Stuyvesant test, which is a way of getting ready. Sort of.

  Deema and I wake up early on Christmas to get the family’s big Christmas lunch together while also making breakfast. After everyone gets up and shares presents, my mom sits at the dining table to study while Dad relaxes on the couch to read his new book. Anand plays a new video game. Deema and I go back to the kitchen to work.

  “Bayti, is something troubling you?” Deema asks while we chop vegetables.

  “No, Deema, why?” I answer. I’m able to avoid my grandmother’s eyes by checking on the pot of bubbling sorrel drink.

  “You seem like your mind somewhere else,” she says.

  “I have a school project on my mind is all.” I don’t want to talk about the video audition, not even with Deema.

  For the rest of the holiday break, I keep worrying about the letter, rushing to the mailbox as soon as the postman comes or dashing up the stairs to go through the pile on the table if he gets there when I’m not home. Things are slow at the restaurant after Christmas and I finish all of my schoolwork in the first few days off. So I use the time left to study for the Stuyvesant exam, which is coming up in January. I’ve got a few more weeks to study. I’m restless at night, not really sleeping, thinking about C-CAP, the Food Network, and our roti shop — and I’m rolling new recipes around in my thoughts, inventing them as I lie in bed, tossing.

  By the time I go back to school after the New Year, I figure I definitely haven’t made the Food Network cut and try to put the whole thing out of my mind.

  “Now I just feel stupid,” I say to Linc at school. “Like they probably watched my video and cracked up all day long.”

  “Come on, Anjali, that’s dumb,” says Linc. “The video was good.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I answer miserably. “I guess maybe I wasn’t good enough.”

  That afternoon I go straight to the restaurant from school, doing my homework at an empty table when things are quiet and studying hard in the final stretch before the Stuyvesant exam. By the time I get home I’m almost too tired to stop in the kitchen for a glass of water. I sit down at the kitchen table with my drink and leaf through the pile of mail there. I almost miss my name on one of the envelopes. I don’t recognize the return address so I assume it’s for one of my parents or Deema. SCRIPPS NETWORKS it says in big letters, and underneath: Food Network.

  I snatch up the letter and tear open the envelope. I stop for a moment before pulling out the paper.

  Dear Ms. Krishnan,

  Thank you for your recent video contribution to the Super Chef Kids contest.

  I close my eyes for a few seconds. I breathe. This sounds like a kiss-off. I open my eyes. I slowly keep reading.

  We are pleased to say you have been chosen as one of the finalists to come to the Food Network studios, accompanied by a parent or guardian, for a live tryout.

  I leap up. I’m dancing quietly, feeling the rhythms of David Rudder fill me. I want to yell but glance quickly at the clock. It’s too late to call Linc. I sit down and bounce in my seat while I read about the details of the Food Network audition.

  The tryout is on January 20. The same day as the Stuyvesant entrance exam. That’s when David Rudder’s soca beat stops suddenly. And I’m breathing even more now — actually, I’m trying to breathe.

  Coconut Dark Chocolate Chip Cookies

  1 cup (two sticks) unsalted butter

  3/4 cup white sugar

  3/4 cup packed brown sugar

  1 large egg

  1 teaspoon vanilla

  2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour

  1 teaspoon baking soda

  1/2 teaspoon salt

  2 cups semisweet chocolate chips or 10 ounces good-quality dark chocolate chopped into chip-size pieces

  1 cup sweetened coconut flakes

  1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Place the rack in the middle position in the oven.

  2. Combine the butter and sugars in the bowl of a standing mixer. Mix on medium-high until light and fluffy, about four minutes.

  3. Add the egg and vanilla and mix well, stopping to scrape down the bowl as necessary.

  4. Stir in the flour, baking soda, and salt until well combined.

  5. Stir in the chocolate chips or chocolate pieces and coconut flakes. Mix well to form a stiff dough.

  6. Drop the dough by rounded tablespoonfuls 2 inches apart onto ungreased cookie sheets that have been lined with parchment paper. Bake 8 to 10 minutes or until light brown. The ce
nters will be soft. Let cool for 5 minutes, then remove from the cookie sheets and place on wire racks to finish cooling.

  Makes 3 dozen cookies

  Sorrel Drink

  8 cups water

  1 cinnamon stick

  6 cloves

  1/2 cup dried sorrel flowers (available in Caribbean markets) or 4 hibiscus tea bags

  2 cups sugar

  1. Place 8 cups of water, the cinnamon stick, and the cloves in a saucepan and bring to a boil. Add the sorrel or the hibiscus tea bags and sugar. Simmer for 2 minutes.

  2. Remove the mixture from the heat; cover and steep at least one hour but preferably overnight.

  3. Strain the sorrel through a fine-mesh sieve or remove tea bags and store in glass bottles in the refrigerator. Serve chilled. Sorrel keeps for up to 1 week.

  Makes 6 to 8 servings

  PART

  TWO

  AMBITION

  Recipe for Ambition

  4 parts desire

  1 part hope

  5 dashes moxie

  3 cups plans, well laid

  1. Pour the desire into a heavy pot placed over high heat. Allow it to come to a hard boil and add the hope. Stir well and lower heat to a simmer.

  2. When the mixture begins to thicken, add the moxie and mix rapidly, using a whisk. Remove from the heat.

  3. Allow the mixture to cool until it is no longer steaming but still hot to the touch. Carefully fold in the well-laid plans until completely combined.

  4. Pour into a heavy ceramic dish and allow to gel.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ambition

  “Deema?” We’re drying dishes.

  “Yes, bayti?”

  “I want to talk to Mom and Dad about something.”

  “What something?”

  I tell her about making the finals and the fact that the actual tryout is the same day as the Stuyvesant test. The words fly out of me like butterflies eager to escape a jar. When I’m done, Deema is quiet, still drying the dishes.

  “Deema?”

  She puts down the plate in her hand and gives me a small smile.

  “Your parents aren’t going to agree to that, Anjali,” she says. “I’m not so sure it’s a good idea myself.”

  “But —” I begin.

  Deema holds up one hand.

  “This is sudden, bayti, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. I can’t agree to something I’m not sure is right.”

  My heart starts to pound slowly but hard. I need Deema’s help. She’s the only one who can reason with my dad. My mom usually goes along with what he wants. I sigh and put the last dish away, then take off my apron. I look at Deema, who nods, taking off her own apron. She gestures toward the living room. Her little smile tells me she’s going to help smooth things over somehow.

  In the living room, my father is parked in front of the TV. He’s watching a soccer game with Anand. Mom’s reading one of her textbooks at the table. I sit on the couch arm, waiting for the game to be over. It’ll be a lot worse if I interrupt my dad’s game. Deema joins my mother at the table and leafs through a catalog that’s come in the newspaper.

  The game finally ends.

  “Dad? Can I talk to you and Mom about something?”

  “Sure, what’s up?” he says, turning toward me. I stand nervously and reach into my pocket, pulling out the acceptance letter for the Food Network tryout. I hand it to him silently. My mother looks up from her textbook while Dad reads.

  “What is it, Anjali?” she asks.

  Before I can respond, my father answers. There’s a big smile on his face.

  “Could you believe it, Lottie? The girl actually got a shot at that Food Network thing.”

  Anand looks away from the TV toward me. “No kidding, sis? WOW!” he says, getting up to give me a high five.

  “Sweetheart, that’s wonderful!” my mom says, and rushes over to hug me.

  I feel dizzy, like when I’m racing around the restaurant kitchen in the heat and I haven’t had enough water. Deema sits quietly at the table, still looking at the catalog.

  “Ma? You hearin’ this?” my father calls over to her. “Ma?”

  Deema stands up. “Yes, son, I hearin’, but I think Anjie has something else to say.”

  I nod and try to swallow. My mouth is completely dry and I’m finding it hard to talk.

  “Well, you see, the tryout day is the same day as the Stuyvesant test,” I begin.

  “Well, you can go after!” Dad booms.

  “I wish. But it’s the same time, Dad,” I say miserably.

  My mom puts her arm around my shoulders.

  “Ah, that’s too bad,” he says. “But at least you know you made it. That’s an achievement. Next time, then.”

  “Dad, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” I say, speaking quickly before he can interrupt me. “I’d like to do this instead. It’s a once in a lifetime chance — I might even get my own show! Plus, I can take the Stuyvesant test next year.”

  Mom interrupts. “Where do you propose to go to school, then, Anjali? You know that even with the scholarship, Forest Hills School is expensive for us. Even on the one in a million chance you win this thing and get your own show, you’ll still have to go to school.”

  “I can go to high school here in Queens,” I say. “It’s free, and there is the C-CAP program I told you about.”

  “Absolutely not,” my father breaks in. “This is foolishness. You are taking the Stuyvesant test. Period.”

  “But, Dad, that’s not a sure thing, either. I might not get in!”

  “Rubbish, Anjali,” he says firmly. “You are one of the smartest kids in your school. Of course you’re getting in.”

  “Please, Dad —”

  “No, the conversation is over,” he says. “Be happy you made the tryout and drop it. This cooking on TV is not your future.”

  “Why?” I say angrily. “Cooking is our family business. It’s your future!”

  “Anjali,” my father says, raising his voice. “Do not test my patience. Cooking is a hobby for you. That’s it — a hobby! Do you think I like standing up in a roti shop all day? It’s not my future by choice, it’s my future by necessity. I want more for you and Anand. You are too young to know what’s good for you. That is my decision to make.”

  “But, Dad —”

  “No, Anjali!” he yells, making me jump. My mother is looking at the floor. She still has her arm around my shoulders.

  “Mom?” I whisper. She shakes her head slightly.

  “Deema?”

  “Your father knows what’s best for you, bayti,” Deema answers softly.

  I pull away from my mother and look angrily at them all. Anand has his arms crossed and is slumped on the couch. He won’t look at me. This is worse than having a bucket of ice thrown on my head.

  “I don’t even want to go to stupid Stuyvesant! Do any of you even care about that?”

  I run to my room and slam the door as hard as I can. I want to break something, to keep screaming, but I know my father would have no problem giving me a smack if I did that. I sit at my desk and stare out the window at the traffic on the Van Wyck Expressway.

  There has to be another way. And I’m going to find it.

  I sit on the wooden bench and unlace my skates. It’s Saturday. Linc and I are spending the morning at the ice rink at the World’s Fair grounds in Flushing, a few neighborhoods away.

  “Anj, it’s too cold to sit out here,” says Linc. “Why can’t we talk inside the skate rental hall?”

  “It’s too noisy in there.”

  Linc blows into his hands, then shoves them into his pockets.

  “I made the Food Network finals,” I blurt out.

  Linc pulls his right hand out of his pocket. He slaps the air between us for a high five. “Pow!”

  But before Linc can get too happy, I tell him. “The callback is the same day as the Stuyvesant test.”

  Linc puts his hand down. “Aw, crap,” he says. “Th
e same time, too?”

  I nod miserably.

  “Maybe you can get a special pass or something. They can let you take the test another time,” he says. “You know — a dis — what’s that word?”

  “A dispensation?” I say. “Not likely. My parents would have to agree and they’ve already said no.”

  Linc hunches into the collar of his coat. “That just sucks,” he mumbles from behind the puffy cloth.

  “Linc …” I begin. He cuts his eyes at me. He knows I’ve already got a plan that involves him. “That’s why I need your help,” I say softly.

  He’s squirming like I’m about to give him a shot. I can only just see Linc’s eyes over the collar of his coat.

  “How do you mean?”

  “I’m not taking the Stuyvesant test,” I say firmly. “I can’t take it.”

  Linc shakes his head. “I’m not gonna have this conversation with you. I don’t like where it’s going.”

  “Please, Linc. Please listen,” I say, tugging at the edge of his jacket. “Just hear me out.”

  Linc flings himself onto a bench. He’s listening.

  “Linc, this means everything to me, even if I have to get in trouble and make my parents angry. If I make the TV show, Mom and Dad won’t stay mad. You should have seen how happy they were about the audition before they found out it’s the same day as the Stuyvesant test.” I’m talking faster before Linc can get a word in. “Imagine me on a TV show! Plus, there’s no guarantee I would even get in to Stuyvesant.”

  Linc looks at me and sticks his fist in the air between us. “First,” he says, sticking out his thumb, “your parents will stay mad. Second” — he sticks out his forefinger — “they won’t think any TV show is as important as school, and third — of course you’ll get in to Stuyvesant.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “Linc, I am going to do it one way or the other. All I’m asking is that you help me a little. I won’t get you in trouble or anything. I just want you to take the Stuyvesant test, then tell me what was on the test after you take it, in case anyone asks me about it. Simple.”