by Jen Nails
Getting Excited Again about Being a Chef
Her phone rang once and then she picked up.
“Hey, Steffy, just a sec,” Nina said. Then she finished saying something about a pair of sweatpants and then people started laughing and she said, “I told you it was ridiculous.” And then she said, “Hi, what’s up?” into the phone.
“Nina . . . ,” I said.
She paused. “Can I meet you guys down there?” she said to the other voices in the room with her. “It’s my sister.”
I told her about my plan with Lisa.
I told her about Dad.
I told her what he said.
“Oh my God,” she said.
We just sat there on the phone with each other, not saying anything. Which felt really, really good.
“Oh my God,” she said again.
“I know,” I said.
“Well,” she said, “he didn’t do it. That’s good. I guess.”
“What do mean, you guess?” I asked.
“I don’t know, Steffy.”
We sat on the phone some more.
“No,” she said, “I mean, of course it’s good he didn’t do it.”
We didn’t know what to say next. But just hearing Nina breathe from Charlotte was probably the only thing that could have made me feel better.
“Steffy,” she said, “there’s nothing really to do about it. I mean . . . it’s like, sad, and everything, but what are we gonna do? Just get ready for Chefs of Tomorrow and do really well and just . . . pretend like Dad never came.”
“But he did come.”
“Yeah, and now he’s gone.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But he’s not gone. He was there. I saw him.”
“True,” she said. “But . . . that doesn’t mean he’s coming back. And honestly, I don’t know if I want him to. Ever again.”
We got nothing solved about Dad, but I’d never needed to hear Nina’s voice more than right then.
“Steffy, this is supposed to be a surprise, but guess who’s waking up at the crack of dawn next Saturday, getting on an early bus, and coming up to G-boro for her sister’s cooking competition?”
It was a whole combination of things that made me get excited about Chefs of Tomorrow again: the smell of the mashed potatoes that I had made the day before, talking to Nina that night after hearing Dad’s story and hearing that she was coming to surprise me, maybe getting a good night’s sleep. And there I was, an official finalist, ready to cook.
They put up these giant platforms, right on the baseball field, and made kitchens on each of them. The five of us were each set up with our ingredients. Just like an actual TV cooking show.
Bob Sebuda himself came over and told us all about the big digital clock beside the screen to the left of the audience. He said that a camera would come near us while we cooked and not to be nervous. Men and ladies in jeans and T-shirts pushed around cameras. Giant spotlights shone on each platform, even though it was daytime.
Auntie Gina and Harry and Nina were waving from the front row with Mrs. Ashton. Lisa and her mom and dad were sitting off to the side near the front. I couldn’t help imagining Dad appearing in the crowd somewhere, but there was too much else happening to think about it for long.
Someone came out with a big sign that said Applause and talked to the audience about clapping loudly. A lady dashed over to Bob Sebuda and dabbed his forehead with a makeup sponge, and then all of a sudden, music started.
“This is Bob Sebuda live from Grasshopper Stadium at New Bridge Bank Park,” said Bob. And the crowd cheered. A guy filming them got pushed along the front row on a cart.
“We have transformed the Hoppers’ stomping grounds into a gourmet’s paradise,” he said, “and we now bring you the five finalists from our nine-to-twelve category, in the first annual Chefs of Tomorrow contest.” He then congratulated the kids who had already won in the family category, and he reminded the audience that the finalists from the thirteen-to-seventeen category would compete that evening. More clapping from the audience.
He went on to talk about each of us in the nine-to-twelve category, and I was glad Auntie Gina had made me eat a banana before we came because I got dizzy hearing my name that loud, spoken to that many people. I was wiping and wiping my hands on my apron.
There were screens that were showing what was being filmed while it was being filmed, and one was showing me and I was wiping and smiling. I hadn’t even realized I was smiling.
“Chefs, time on the clock is one hour and thirty minutes, start to finish. All your ingredients have been preset for you. Are you ready?”
All of us looked at each other from our different little kitchens. The turkey-dinner girl from last time gave a thumbs-up, and people laughed. I nodded, and there was a hot feeling spreading all over my face and chest.
“All right,” said Bob, “gentlemen and ladies, you may begin!”
Finally. And you could just feel all of us getting to business. For me, sauce was first. I cut up my sausage and onions and garlic superfast, just like I practiced. Then I fried all this up in olive oil and added the tomato sauce and paste, and before I knew it, the sauce was simmering, and I was on to my dough. There was music playing, and Bob kept talking about I don’t know what. My hands were shaking because of the cameras following me every second.
When I had to knead, I gripped and clawed at that dough, and there was the panic that comes with dough, that it’s always gonna be a mess. Nina was yelling, “Hoards derves, hoards derves, hoards derves,” and it made me laugh and I glanced at myself smiling at the dough on TV, which made me smile bigger and just laugh a little that I was doing this. That I was standing on this giant platform in a fake kitchen making gnocchi. I couldn’t hear what Bob was saying, but I heard “Sandolini” in there somewhere. The dough was making me too, too nervous because it was all sticky and clumpy, and there were tears ready to come down. But right away I remembered the water secret, and after a few drops, it started becoming whole.
Okay. Dough was cleeshing. One hour and nine minutes left. On to the pie. Preheat oven: check. The yams weren’t as soft as I would have liked, but oh well. Once the pie was in the oven, right exactly at fifty minutes left (just as planned!), I went on to the gnocchi slicing and schweeting. No problems there.
I popped some garlic bread in the oven to broil for five minutes. Oh no! I had forgotten to turn on the stove to boil the gnocchi! I ran to the stove and turned it on full blast, clamped the lid over the big pot of water, and looked out for Auntie Gina. She pointed to her watch and nodded.
A camera went close up on my face, and I turned right around like I was real busy and pulled the pie out of the oven, sprinkled the crumble on top, and slid it back in. Dessert: almost done. I set the colander in the sink: ready. I set the table with big plates and pie plates and then with an oven mitt lifted out the garlic bread. Second thought, I put it back in and turned the upper oven off. Better to serve it hot. Time: twelve minutes.
I checked my water, and it was as still as a painting. I filled two glasses with ice and water. Fluffed the flowers in the vase. Tried not to dwell on the stir-fry girl just sitting and fanning herself with a napkin, and the stew kid laughing and nodding at the camera, displaying his meal. They were done ten minutes early!
Checked my water, and there were little bubbles on the sides. Auntie Gina’s eyes said just keep going, and I did. I pushed from my brain the cameras all by me now, Bob saying each thing I did as I was doing it. Finally, I got a boil, at six minutes. It’d take me about three minutes to strain and rinse in hot water and then douse with sauce. I dumped in only half of the gnocchi that I’d cut so it’d take quicker. Five minutes left.
Grabbed the garlic bread out of the oven. Four minutes. Stirred the gnocchi. Some were actually beginning to rise to the top. Yes! Three minutes. Slid the pie out of the oven and set it on the table. The audience was clapping and cheering. I risked one more gnocchi-boiling minute. But at one minute on the clock I had to
turn off the heat, lift the pot, pour the gnocchi into the colander, and rinse. Load up each plate, douse with sauce. Time.
I stepped back from the counter like Bob had said to. I looked around at all my fellow cooks, and everybody was smiling so big. We all looked red and blotchy and relieved. Oh darn, I had forgotten to set out the Romano cheese! Oh well. And there was sauce slopped all over the floor. Eh. I was sure that the other people’s kitchens were all messy too, so I just let Bob lead me and the others down to the front, and when they asked me what I was thinking when I realized I’d forgot to turn on the stove to boil the water, all I said was that I thought, “Oh my gosh, I forgot to turn on the stove.”
We were allowed to go and sit with our families while the judging happened. Lisa made her way across the front row to grab me and said she could never have finished the way I did. Nina and Auntie Gina were talking nonstop about what everyone did, like the stew boy spilling all his stock and having to use water that he seasoned up with salt and garlic powder, and how the catfish boy burned one of the catfish and only was able to serve one plate of food at the end instead of two, but at the last minute he cut the fish in half and put a piece on each plate.
I looked behind us and into the crowd of people all around, standing and sitting and chatting and laughing a lot. I hoped I would see a tall, blondish guy looking for me. I scanned the audience in every direction. Maybe he was there somewhere and just couldn’t find us.
Luckily, the judging was quick, so I didn’t have a whole lot of time to think about it. Bob said that this time was even harder than the first time around. He reminded us that the winner got three thousand dollars and to have their meal featured on the menu at Lucky 32. Also, second place was one thousand dollars and summer cooking lessons at Elon University. Third, fourth, and fifth got two hundred and fifty dollars each.
“I don’t think I’m going to win,” I said.
“Shut up, Steffy,” said Lisa.
“You’re winning something,” said Nina. “All five of you are—you made it this far.”
Bob said, “In fifth place: barbecued catfish and king cake!”
The crowd roared.
“Fourth place: Asian noodle stir-fry and vanilla soy cookies!”
Whooping and clapping.
“Third: caramel beef stew with vegetables and caramel apples!”
Screaming and hollering.
Each of the cooks was coming up and shaking hands with Bob and getting an envelope.
Oh my gosh, I either won first or second, I either won first or second, I either won first or second. Everyone in my family was looking at me, but I just stared at Bob and there were flames in my cheeks.
Then he said, “Second place: potato gnocchi and yam-pecan pie!”
And I think I walked up but it was more like I floated up, and everybody was cheering and I shook hands and the stew boy hugged me, and Bob gave me a big envelope and the lights blinded me a little and I squint-smiled toward my family.
The traditional-turkey-dinner girl came up and jumped up and down and got her stuff. There were splatters and splashes all over her apron, and her face was all splotchy, too. Then we all stood together and held hands, and cameras flashed and Bob told us to bow and said we were remarkable. I let myself feel it from underneath my feet to a hovering part over my head.
Harry said that in life there were these rare, monumental things that happen, and he called them Key Moments. He said that when I was up there on that stage, that was a Key Moment. I didn’t know if I would ever feel like that again. I didn’t know if I could ever do anything as good. I didn’t know what I did to deserve it. I just held my envelope and closed my eyes as they filled up behind my lids.
Tummy Ticklers for Little Tots
Auntie Gina once told me about something called neuroplasticity. How some people think that the well part of the brain is always trying to spark the sick part of the brain and get it back on track. She said that in some patients the well part even won, and the sick part got better. Her whole thing about saying only good things around Mom was to help the sick part of her brain get sparked.
That’s why me and Auntie Gina brought the whole cookbook with us this time. Since it was summer, we could go visit Mom whenever we wanted, really, and so we changed it to Mondays, when Auntie Gina was off now.
Helen said it was okay to bake, that we could use the kitchen in the dining hall again. Mom was doing so well lately, reading and remembering, playing music, asking questions. We thought it could be good to cook together again.
After all the big hugs, we gave her her old cookbook. At first she just held it in her lap and then she was almost crying. With her index finger she went back and forth over the red-and-white plaid cover.
“We’re making banana bread, Mom,” I said. “Will you get the recipe out?” She opened the book slowly and sifted through scrap after scrap and notebook sheet after notebook sheet. I wondered what she thought about reading her old recipes, if looking at them jogged something in her. When she found the banana bread one, she read it out loud to Auntie Gina, who followed the directions. I liked seeing them going back and forth, Auntie Gina talking about how she remembered their mom making up recipes all the time.
“Our mom had a knack,” said Mom.
“So do you,” said Auntie Gina.
Mom asked, “When did she die?”
“Your senior year of high school,” said Auntie Gina. “Steffy, you come stir.” I did, and then Mom added the chocolate chips, and then I folded them in. After we got it into the oven, we sat around one of the big dining tables, and Auntie Gina told Mom how I got second place. Mom hugged and hugged me. We also told her that Nina missed her so much and loved it in Charlotte.
Soon the warm chocolate-banana smell filled the kitchen, and the other residents started coming in and asking questions. Helen said it was a treat and anyone was welcome to enjoy some in a bit. All the while Mom studied her old banana bread recipe, her thumbs tight on the sides of the yellowed paper.
“This was from the Mini Page,” she said.
“The Mini Page . . . from the Greensboro Daily News?” asked Auntie Gina.
“That’s where I found this. In the Mini Page—in that section called Tummy Ticklers for Little Tots. I was in fifth grade. Like Steffy.”
We were just quiet for a second. Mom’s eyes came to life, like maybe the place behind them got a little charge of electricity.
Hi, James Falcon, I’m Gonna Be Doing Cooking Lessons.
“Hey. This is James Falcon. Please leave me your important message after the tone.”
My important message was short and easy, and my voice didn’t even shake. I just said, “Hi, I came in second and I opened a bank account with the thousand dollars, and I’m gonna be doing cooking lessons. Did you see me on TV? Bye.”
I had to at least try to reach him.
The way that I was trying to reach my mom.
Maybe I still didn’t know what would happen with my parents in the long run, but my dad and mom could be reached. I could even hug them, touch them.
I wished I could leave Jean Sawyer a message on her voice mail to tell her thank you for letting us live with her when we were little and giving us rides now that we were older, and thank you for taking care of us.
Cake, Cake, Cake, Cake, Cake, and Cake. And Candy. And Cookies.
The wedding cake was the hardest thing I ever made. Harder than Kitchen Sink, harder than Crock-Pot Thanksgiving dinner, harder than gnocchi and pie in an hour and a half. One hundred pieces of cake is a lot of pieces of cake. And what if someone wanted two? And they had to freeze some for luck, said the magazines.
Plus, I knew I was being all ambitious, but I was making a special thing for Harry, too, that I hoped would turn out. This Korean sesame candy that I read about online. And then there were the S’s and O’s that were in the cookbook in my grandma Sandolini’s writing. But I had planned ahead and made those last night and then brought them over to my house to frost the
m.
We decided that since all Harry’s relatives were in town and staying at Harry and Auntie Gina’s, we shouldn’t do the cake over there. They were here all the way from Korea, and Auntie Gina was worried about his great-aunt Lucy and his grandmother, and she wanted things to be quiet and calm for them.
She had dropped me and all the ingredients off, and she’d be back in a while, as soon as she stopped at the flower place and then St. Theresa’s. Harry was getting his tuxedo and then picking up some more cousins from the airport. Nina was on the bus home, and we’d get her this evening before the rehearsal thing.
I thought it’d be weird going back home, but there was too much to do right then besides getting sad and pulled down about my dad. I didn’t know what was going to happen next, but me and Nina were fine at Auntie Gina’s for now. Any panic I had about what would happen after she was officially married to Harry was way down at the bottom of me somewhere, and at the top was all the flour and sugar and cocoa and vanilla extract and eggs and powdered sugar that was bulging out of the Harris Teeter bags.
Since this was supposed to be a serious cake, I actually made it all from scratch. Mom’s cookbook got all splattered with batter and vanilla and cooking oil. The kitchen was exploding with measuring cups, small mixing bowls, big mixing bowls. The spatula, dishcloths, a pile of sugar that I spilled on the counter, mixing spoons, eggshells. Basically everything from the cabinets was out.
I had made six cakes because I imagined mad people who wanted a second piece and decided it was better to have more cake (what better thing to have more of than less of?) than not enough. I think I had the oven on for about five hours total and the air-conditioning cranked up high. I sang to the radio full blast.
I didn’t hear the screen door creaking open. I didn’t hear the keys. I didn’t hear Dad until he was right there saying, “Hey.”
I said, “Dad!” And then I rushed to turn the music down.