Let's Dish

by Catherine Wade

  I looked around at the stainless steel countertops, blast freezer, Oster mixer and the various other appliances. It was almost like a set for a television show, or so I imagined. It had three walls separating it from the kitchens on either side, and a stainless steel counter ran along the open front. Two rows of identical kitchens, ten on each side, faced a center area where crews were setting up aisles of metal chairs. The audience. At the head of the entire thing was the judge's table with the damp Mr. Pollack and masculine Mrs. Scanland preparing to hold court.

  At most kitchens, chefs were sorting their groceries and arranging their utensils within arm's reach. They were all dressed in white coats and tall hats, with the occasional trendy polo shirt and “flare” to mix it up. Restaurants from all over the area were represented, including a few popular spots from up by Niagara Falls. I was just a titch intimidated. And Billy Graham is just a titch religious.

  At the back of my kitchen area was a large cardboard box containing our groceries. Kevin and I were lucky enough to be able to place our order the evening before so most of what we needed was already there. I'd brought the remaining ingredients in my precious paper bag. Also in my bag, slightly tattered at the corners but still presentable, was my banner.

  I unfolded it gingerly, taking great pains not to unravel the edges. She'd been through a fire, but when I'd found her in the back of a kitchen cabinet, there had only been a few smudges. After drying out, the four-leaf clover still declared, “Let's Dish!” in bright green letters.

  I ran my hand over the fabric and enjoyed the coolness of the paint under my fingers. As my hand ran across the clover, I felt warmth on my neck, though a chill went up my spine.

  "I like it.” Kevin's voice was deep and silky.

  For just a second, I closed my eyes and let my mind consider what it would feel like to lean back into him. His arms had felt so good around me the night before until—until he ran like a scared rabbit. “Get done what you needed to last night?"

  "Yeah, I did.” His voice sounded tired and, when I turned to look at him, dark circles rimmed his eyes. “I didn't want to run out like that, Maggie. It was terrible timing. I wish I could explain, it's just that—"

  "You had stuff to do, I get it.” I dismissed him with a wave of my hand. I climbed onto the countertop. “Pass me the tape that's in my bag. It's time we hung this banner and got serious."

  "Oh, for Pete's sake.” He climbed up beside me. “Let me do this. I have a little bit of height on you. No offense."

  I bit back a sharp reply, but handed him the tape without saying a word. I'd been short my entire life. It's not like it wasn't true. Still, I was just aggravated enough to be tempted to lash out. Go figure.

  He stretched up to attach the ropes on the banners to the corners of our kitchen. As he did, his shirt lifted until I could see his smooth abdomen. I made myself look away. Seriously, pregnancy hormones cause temporary insanity. I swear.

  When he came down, we unpacked the groceries and got our act together, all without saying a word. We never spoke much when we worked. We'd never had to. Still, that morning the silence seemed awkward. Kevin occasionally drew a breath as if he wanted to say something, only to turn away to tuck some something into the fridge or arrange the spices in the rack.

  We stayed busy long enough for the seats to start filling and for Charles Scott and someone I figured was the final judge to arrive. Hal Gabriel was a tall man, actually looked a little bit like Abraham Lincoln without the stovepipe hat. He was dark and angular and wore his tweed suit with an uncomfortable shrug. I looked over the sheets Roberta had passed by with earlier. His bio declared he was originally a farmer before he discovered the perfect process for breeding round, orange, flavorful pumpkins. I was fairly certain judging fancy cooking contests was not exactly his forte.

  I looked up from the page and saw it—a double nightmare. Directly across from us Angela ordered around a pretty, young dishwater blonde. Angela was fuming at her intimidated assistant, but that wasn't the worst of her little display. Above their station hung a banner that looked like it had been printed in a tremendous hurry at one of those places you find in a strip mall. Angel Cakes it read, in the same red, glossy lettering that had spelled out the establishment's former moniker. I couldn't tell you what Kevin's reaction was, because the kitchen right next door to Angela grabbed my attention.

  Chateau Charpentier was written out in flowing floral letters. Under the sign stood Armand with a tiny, hunched Asian man shuffling along beside him arranging pots and pans on the stove. It may have been my imagination, but Armand looked miserable. It also could have been wishful thinking. When he caught my eye, the corners of his mouth turned up and he waved. I couldn't even move to respond.

  "We're up against ourselves.” Kevin's voice sounded as stunned as mine would have been, had I been capable of speech.

  "I never even thought about Armand and Angela,” I said after gaping for another ten seconds. “I suppose it makes sense, but ... but..."

  Kevin nudged me. “Let's not even think about it. We both need this, Maggie. The only way we're going to get it is to put everything else behind us and concentrate on what we're doing.” I looked up at him and will admit I was surprised by the complete honesty in his expression. “I'd like to do that, anyway."

  My heart thumped, which I quickly attributed to Bob. “You're right. Let's do this."

  Five minutes later, the buzzer rang and we were off.

  * * * *

  Almost two hours later, I could feel my cheeks were flushed. Unfortunately, it wasn't all because of the heat of the oven. There was something undeniably erotic about cooking with someone, and Kevin and I were working in concert like a machine—like no time or hard feelings had ever passed between us.

  I was feeling pretty confident about the overall menu, but I'd made a last-minute change to dessert.

  "Butternut squash?” Kevin asked, saying the first words he had in over an hour.

  I looked down at the golden cream that was originally supposed to be lemon. “And brown sugar."

  He nodded his appreciation. “Inspired."

  "Risky.” I sighed as I looked at the golden mixture.

  Kevin took out a spoon, dipped it in the cream, and swirled the spoon in his mouth. At first, his face was unreadable. Then his eyes closed and he smiled. “Perfect."

  Somehow that one word melted the ice that had encased my heart for years. I smiled back at him and went back to mixing. When the pound cake was layered with cream, it looked marvelous. I just hoped the judges liked it as much as Kevin did.

  When our dishes were ready and laid out on our counter for presentation, it occurred to me—not for the first time—that all our eggs were in one basket. At least we had finished in plenty of time. As the competitor's dishes began appearing on their counters, I was treated to a visual feast of creativity and originality. I prayed they tasted like garbage.

  Kevin dried his hands and looked over at me. “We're done."

  "It's over.” My announcement was less in relief and more in resignation. Kevin must have recognized my tone, because his arms were suddenly around me, squeezing tight. “We did our best, and our best is pretty damned good, Maggie. It's not over yet."

  I swallowed hard and nodded. “Right. The judges will be around in five minutes. Let's get our kitchen clean."

  Resolve was back. All-business-Maggie was back. Mostly because I felt like falling into Kevin's arms and kissing him until I couldn't feel my lips anymore. “Jesus, Bob, what have you done to me?” I whispered to my tummy.

  "Who are you talking to, Margaret Mary?"

  "Mom?"

  My mother, with my father in tow, had emerged from the audience to appear at my counter. “Well, we couldn't miss such an important event as this, could we? It's just like that talent show you did in sixth grade. Oh, Margaret, you were so cute!"

  Oy! Leave it to my mother to make me feel like a little kid when my hormones were making me feel like a wildcat in
heat. “Mother, the judges are coming by! You have to sit down."

  My father pointed a finger at the now butternut squash cream cake and his lip curled. “What is that?"

  "Dessert. Now sit down!"

  My mother turned up her nose. “Is that squash in it? You made dessert with squash?"

  "Yes, mother.” I looked down the row to see Moist Man, Gerard Depardieu in Drag, and Abraham Lincoln making their way up the row. Charles Scott was busy signing autographs at the end of the row. “Mom, go sit down! Now!"

  Mother's hand flew to her chest. “No need to be rude, young lady.” But she turned back to her seat.

  Kevin, much to my irritation, was laughing. “I swear I don't know how you turned out normal with parents like those. They're sweet, but come on!"

  "Yeah.” I forced a chuckle. Normal. Yeah. Knocked up by a drag queen, wanting to jump my worst enemy's bones. Normal. Whatever.

  The judges came up to our counter and sniffed, poked and sampled our dishes. Not a one of them wore a readable expression. When they came to dessert, Abraham Lincoln, aka Hal Gabriel, took a second taste from his plate. “Butternut squash,” he said. “But the menu said lemon."

  I stood with my hands folded so no one would notice my palms were sweating. “It was a last-minute decision. I felt it better represented autumn's flavors."

  He took another bite, looked like he might smile, but carefully wiped any expression off his face. “I grow butternuts too, you know. Not just pumpkins."

  I smiled, showing as many teeth as I could. “Really? That's wonderful!"

  They moved on and I nearly collapsed. “That's wonderful? Why would I say ‘That's wonderful'? Interesting, yes. Asking about other squashes, maybe. But wonderful? Why don't you just seem a little more eager and desperate, Maggie!"

  "Relax,” Kevin said, though I noticed he was squirming. “I think he liked it."

  "Yeah, but what about Cyrano de Bergerac and the Swamp Monster?"

  Kevin subdued a laugh. “Who?"

  I shook my head. “Oh, never mind!"

  It was time to wait. Not exactly my favorite thing to do during a competition, especially when I had more to think about than whether or not I could add a new kudo to my resume. I was carefully avoiding Armand's gaze, though I kept an eye on Lyla from my peripheral vision.

  We were all lined up in front of our kitchens, waiting for the announcement. The judges tallied and conferred, whispering sweet nothings to one another as they discussed and, it appeared, sometimes argued over the dishes. I could hear my father getting impatient already. “When is she going to win so we can go home?” I heard him ask my mother.

  Fifteen minutes into the torture, Lyla motioned as if trying to catch my gaze. My initial reaction was to look her way, but I resisted. Good thing I did, because it was very soon obvious it wasn't my attention she was trying to attract. It was Kevin's. The morning only a week ago, waking to Lyla and Kevin plotting against me at Best Dishes, came back to me like an anvil falling on Wile E. Coyote's head. Here I was thinking I had it all together—okay, semi-together—when a huge weight had been hanging over me. Go figure.

  I concentrated on my sideways focus, watching Lyla mouth something to Kevin. I was lucky—Kevin wasn't catching it the first time, either. The second time, I caught it.

  "Do you have it?” Lyla mimed.

  Kevin wasn't as subtle. He managed a pantomime-whisper thing. “Yeah. It's in the back of the van."

  Lyla nodded and disappeared. I didn't want to be, but I was curious as to what was in that damned van. Within a few moments, Armand disappeared toward the back of his kitchen. I looked around, trying to appear like I was casually checking out the competition. What I really was doing was trying to figure out what the heck Lyla and Armand were doing in the kitchen. Armand's back was blocking me, though, and when he moved, a cardboard box made my attempts futile.

  "Would the following teams please come forward,” Roberta Hansen's voice boomed over the microphone, bringing me back to the crisis at hand. “Chateau Charpentier.” Armand and his partner made their way toward the judge's table as the crowd erupted in applause. “Potter's Bakery and Bistro,” her voice called again, and a tiny woman who looked to be about a hundred and ten was escorted to the front by a young woman. “Angel Cakes.” Angela tossed a victorious glance over her shoulder as she strutted forward looking like she'd just won the Miss America Pageant.

  I took a deep breath and tried to ignore the thumping in my chest. Two more left in the top five. “Turtle Creek Bakery.” I was starting to get really annoyed by Roberta Hansen's sing-song tone and superior smile.

  "Let's Dish,” she said, and I fell in love with the sunbeam that crossed her face.

  As we walked toward the judges’ table, Kevin squeezed my hand in support. I wanted to rip my hand out of his, still thinking of Lyla's covert operations. But I was too nervous and excited to do anything but keep putting one foot in front of the other.

  We turned to face the crowd that had gathered to view the judging. I caught my mother's eye and even I had to admit she looked authentically excited. Kevin still gripped my hand. He must have been nervous, too, because his palms were sweating. Or maybe mine were just rubbing off onto him. All I knew was pretty soon we would be dripping.

  Roberta Hansen walked in front of us, doing her best Vanna White impersonation. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is our top five!” Applause erupted again, and the other chefs, still lined up in front of their kitchens, glared at us in contempt.

  So we were in the money. This was good, but we still had a lot to lose.

  "These chefs,” Roberta said, and I realized there was to be a long, suspense-building speech before the announcement. “These chefs have created unique dishes based on traditional favorites of the season. They have created masterpieces, and did it in only two hours!"

  Yeah, a month and two hours, I thought, but kept the smile firm on my face.

  "But only one of these teams will walk away with the Grand Prize! The judging entailed..."

  Yada yada yada. She went on and on for what felt like an hour, discussing tallies based on taste, presentation, and originality while we all stood there like statues in a rock garden.

  "We have a special surprise today, as well.” Roberta clasped her hands in excitement. “All of the chefs participating in today's competition will be invited to contribute their recipes to the new cookbook from Atlantic Gourmet Magazine!” More applause. Well, there was my kudo. At last, I would have a recipe featured in an Atlantic Gourmet publication. Along with about six dozen other chefs from the area. Oh joy.

  "Get on with it,” Kevin whispered.

  "No kidding,” Armand said. For a moment, it all seemed comical. Unfortunately, my heart was pounding too much for me to even think about laughing.

  "And as an extra special surprise for our winners today, they will be featured in an episode of The Everyday Gourmand, hosted by our own Charles Scott!"

  She motioned toward the rotund, shiny man in the silk suit. He bowed, looking humble. Too bad I caught the lecherous wink he shot over to the eighteen-year-old photographer's assistant.

  At last, Roberta Hansen turned to the crowd. “And now, our fifth place winner.” Roberta pulled out the first of five long white envelopes, each bearing a place number. This time I thought Kevin was going to break my hand he was squeezing it so hard. “Our fifth place winner takes home five hundred dollars and a year's supply of pumpkins from Great Northern Pumpkins!"

  "Thrilling,” Armand whispered, and Kevin snorted.

  "Potter's Bakery!"

  I thought the little old lady was going to need oxygen, she was so excited. Or pissed off, it was hard to tell while she grimaced with effort, walking up to retrieve her check.

  "Fourth place, winner of a thousand dollars and a year's supply of squash—” Roberta opened the next envelope. “Chateau Charpentier!"

  My heart flip-flopped and I felt sad and relieved all at the same time. Armand, to his credit, flashe
d a charming smile at the judges and collected his prize with grace, the Pat Morita look-alike shuffling along behind him.

  "Third place—"

  I tried to decide if her voice was more like the rhythm of some psychotic train leading to hell or if it was slowly lulling me into an uneasy sleep. Either way, I was getting sick of it.

  She opened the next envelope, slowly torturing us as she made tiny tears in the paper. Rip. Rip. Rip. “Our third place contestants take home two thousand dollars, a year's supply of Great Northern Pumpkins, and a complete set of Emeril Lagasse cookware! Turtle Creek Bakery!"

  The folks from Turtle Creek collected their prize, a little too excited about the pumpkins and cookware to be believable. I then realized we were standing next to Angela and her dishwater blonde. One pair of us were winners, the other were losers. Not second place. Losers.

  Why did I have a sinking feeling I was on the wrong side of that line?

  "Well, I must say this has been exciting,” Roberta said to the crowd.

  "I must say this has been like Chinese water torture,” Kevin hissed into my ear. I couldn't agree more.

  "These individuals that you see here, I happen to know, have been through a lot to be at this competition today. And it thrills me to see the four of them standing up here together to wait for that final announcement. I cannot think of four people more deserving of the prizes we're about to reward."

  "I can't think of anyone more deserving of a good smack,” Kevin whispered. I wasn't sure if he meant Roberta or Angela, but I agreed on both counts.

  "So without further delay, our second place winner—our first runner-up, if you will...” And Roberta stopped. Again, she ripped at the envelope with such careful, torturously tiny tears I could have reached out and strangled her. Funny, I never used to be the violent type. Must be those hormones.

  "Our second place winner, winner of five thousand dollars and a five-year supply of pumpkins from Great Northern Pumpkins..."

  "Come on, come on,” Kevin chanted more to himself than anyone.