“How are—” she begins.
“I don’t want to chitchat. I just want answers,” I say.
She nods. “Okay.”
“When did you come up with the reality show?”
“After Paul told you he wanted to see other people. We just wanted—”
I hold up my hand, cutting her off again. “Where did you find Aaron and Eugene?”
I figure Justin Michael was easy to include, if he actually has an internship with Disney. It would be an elaborate hoax if he didn’t since I’ve seen his employee card, but I wouldn’t put it past my family. He keeps apologizing via text and voice messages, but I don’t want to hear it now.
“Aaron and I had a Facebook mutual,” Cari says. “Justin Michael just wanted a way back into your life. And Aunt Jay found Eugene—I’m not sure how, I think because she knows his dad.”
“Why did he ghost me? I’m sure you know.”
She looks away. My stomach drops as rage bubbles through my chest. She knew. She let me spin out and obsess and she knew all along why he didn’t text me.
“He… something you said at the beach had an effect on him—something about lying by omission. Since he couldn’t tell you the truth without destroying the whole competition, he decided he couldn’t talk to you anymore. He was never a fan of the setup, but he liked that we were trying to help you.”
I bark out a dark laugh. Cari frowns.
“He had a lot of reservations after meeting you at the graduation party,” she continues. “He wasn’t going to be a contestant, but then you really accidentally ran into each other at Publix and he waited for you to text him, but you didn’t.”
“How nice that something was real,” I say.
“Everything you felt when you were with him was real, Jaz. You should give him another chance. He really likes you. You really—”
“I’m good without relationship advice from you,” I snap. “You have your shows, but you don’t know anything about love, do you?”
She winces. Guilt pricks at me. I never talk to my sister like this, but she deserved that barb. She deserves a lot worse.
“I think he’s a good guy,” she says quietly.
“I thought you were all good people. Look where it’s gotten me.”
She opens her mouth but sighs. “I never wanted to hurt you, Jaz. I just… I just… we just wanted you to be happy.”
“Thanks,” I say flatly. “Close the door, please.”
She does and I spend the rest of the day alone in my room.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
The storm passes as all storms do, but I’m left sorting through the wreckage of my family and friends. I’m not as furious as I was yesterday. I’m just… empty. And that may be worse.
Most of Orlando lost power, a mobile home park was seriously damaged, and there’s severe flooding in some areas, but aside from debris and dangerous heat, Winter Park got off easy.
My mom came back in the morning, so there was another person I had to avoid in my not large house. She’s usually a force to be reckoned with, but somehow she left me alone. The rain ending, though, meant family continuing to visit one another—inspecting damage, helping to remove trees, things like that.
I lucked out though. Instead of people coming over, Mom, Dad, and Davey left to check on our grandparents. They said goodbye as I watched a documentary on Chef José Andrés I’d downloaded earlier from Netflix.
Cari and I are now home by ourselves and the doorbell rings. I know she’ll answer it, so I stay in my room. A few seconds later, though, there’s a knock on my bedroom door.
“Jaz, it’s me,” Aunt Jay says.
I’m surprised she’s here, but I give her my standard answer. “I don’t want to talk,” I say.
“It’s not about that,” she says.
And I can’t help it—I’m intrigued. I get up from my bed and unlock my door.
“What’s it about then?” I ask.
Jay is dressed for the kitchen in chef pants and a tank top. The sleeve of tattoos that my mom absolutely hates—knives and bread and mermaids, things like that—is on full display.
“I was hoping you could give me a hand,” Jay says, her blue eyes serious.
I knit my eyebrows. “What?”
“I know you’re upset and—” she begins.
I shoot her a look.
“Right,” she continues, and clears her throat. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but they opened the Amway Center to people displaced by the storm. It’s going to take a while to get the whole power grid up again and people need somewhere cool and safe to stay.”
“Okay.…” I’m listening but trying to figure out what she wants. I know it’s more than to give me an update on the state of Orlando. And this is probably the most we’ve talked, just the two of us, since the day at Ventura’s Bistro.
“Almost all the restaurants won’t open tonight, and trucks can’t get through to restock the stores because of powerlines and debris, so some chefs and caterers are going to provide meals. I was hoping you’d want to cook with me.”
What? Is she really asking me to cook professionally with her? We haven’t cooked together in years.
“I could use another set of hands,” she adds.
To say that I’m conflicted is an understatement. Memories war in my brain for supremacy. Laughing with Jay as she hip checked me away from looking in on the cake we made. Her teaching me the ways to pick the best produce at the farmers market. The walk around my neighborhood so it wouldn’t look like I was crying. The family parties after the bistro closed where she tried to talk to me but I avoided her. And the day she stopped trying.
“I’d rather not…,” I say.
She doesn’t react much beyond raising her eyebrows a little. “I have to get to my facility. Your mom wants you and Cari to help at Nonna’s if you’re not coming with me.”
A deep groan rises in my throat and I suppress it. Barely. How did my life become this series of impossible choices? I guess secrets and lies will do that, but still… ugh.
I think about saying no to it all, but that would require turning down Jay and going toe to toe with my mother and I’ve never done that. I don’t see it ending well. So it’s either help at my grandparents’ house with most of my family trying to talk to me or cook with Aunt Jay and Cari where there’s so much unsaid.
I make my choice.
“Give me a couple of minutes to get ready,” I say.
Jay nods. “I’ll be in the car.”
I put my hair into a braid, change into a tank and jeans, and slip on kitchen clogs by the door. They’re rubberized shoes that protect from knife drops. Jay gave them to me as a Christmas present one year. Mom couldn’t figure out why my aunt bought me “ugly shoes.”
Everything still feels so familiar from four years ago, but today will be different. For starters, Cari will be there. I bet she’ll figure out a way to be great at cooking, too.
But when I get into the passenger side of Jay’s red Jeep Wrangler, it’s just the two of us.
“Where’s Cari?” I say. “Isn't she coming?”
“Did she suddenly learn how to cook?” Jay says.
I almost laugh and it comes out as more of a snort. “They smoked olive oil yesterday.”
Jay shakes her head as she reverses out of the driveway. We drive down the block and palm fronds are scattered across yards. Jay swerves around tree limbs in the street.
“It’s not that I don’t want her help,” Jay says, “Well, I kind of don’t. It’s going to be hectic enough without having to worry about someone chopping off a finger.”
“So why ask me?” I say.
Jay barely shrugs. “You’re the only other person in this family who can cook.”
I raise my eyebrows. My mom would resent that.
“If you tell Dee or Tammy I said that, I’ll deny it,” Jay says.
I almost smile again. The truth is, I missed my aunt and the way she just says things. How she never s
eems to be bothered by rebelling, by being the black sheep.
Jay makes the radio louder—she still listens to old-school hip-hop. I hang on to the handle as she weaves through Winter Park. She’s a little reckless but not Emily-level dangerous.
Nearly all the traffic lights are out, and cops are parked in the busier intersections directing traffic. Some streets are closed for live wires or trees down. Everywhere there are crews trying to get power back up or clearing the mess. It’s this way after every hurricane.
“I’m glad my facility still has power,” Aunt Jay says. “Once everything is ready, we’ll transport the food and supplies over. There’s nonsense red tape about cooking and serving in Amway itself because of the concessions contracts.”
“What?” I say. “It’s not like there’s a concert or a basketball game.”
“I know. But, we’re just going around it. The restaurants are setting up in the parking lot as a pop-up, benefit, or tailgate. Surprise, surprise, the chefs couldn’t agree on what to call it or how to run it. So everyone is kind of doing their own thing or banding together in groups. Cari is handling the social for me.”
“Are you charging?” I ask.
“It’s pay what you will. Obviously, there’s no charge for anyone in the Amway, and I’m donating all the ingredients. Any money we collect will go to the food bank. They’ll need it in the coming days. The storm hits the people hardest who are least able to afford it, you know?”
I nod. Mom and Dad both talk about that. It’s easy, living in a place as wealthy as Winter Park, to forget how privileged you are to not worry about where your next meal will come from. My family always wants us to remember.
“I should tell you that Jack Matthews will be cooking with us,” Jay says.
I turn in my seat. “What!”
I don’t even know how to feel. Am I really going to be cooking in the same kitchen as Chef Matthews? Never, even in my wildest dreams where I have my own successful restaurant, have I thought that was possible. But he’s still Eugene’s dad and I have a lot of feelings about that.
“Not his son,” Jay says as if she can read my mind. “Just Chef. Eugene is setting up at the Amway. If he gets done early, he’ll swing by to help us finish and load up.”
“Drop me off, please,” I say.
“Jaz.” Aunt Jay looks over her shoulder at me, giving me a disappointed glance that’s as cutting as any Mom has given me. “You’re not this person.”
Before I can stop myself, I explode.
“You all think you know what I should do, who I should date, what’s best for me. What makes you so sure you even know who I am? This is the most you and I have spoken in four years.”
“I know we haven’t spoken,” Jay says. “You wanted your space and I gave it to you. But I’ve always known you. From the moment you came here as a baby, when you became part of our family, I’ve known your heart. I know you care. And I know you’re not going to go home when you can help dozens, maybe hundreds, of people today. You won’t skip it just because a boy might be there. You’re stronger than that—you didn’t do that in eighth grade, you don’t have a reason to do it now. And I’m sure you’re still disappointed in me, but you’re here. Put it aside. This is something you can do to comfort people who lost their homes, who lost everything. And it’s something only you can do. You were the only one I taught because you were drawn to the kitchen and you wanted to learn. And now we need your skill. But… if you want me to drop you off, I will. You’re not a hostage.”
With that, we ride together in silence. There’s so much and yet nothing to say.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
We walk into my aunt’s catering facility, and five people are already hard at work. Aromas of onions and spices and fresh bread fill the air—i.e., it smells amazing. The high-ceilinged building used to be an abandoned factory, but Aunt Jay revitalized the space with help from Uncle Al.
I recognize Chef Matthews immediately, and although I brace to see Eugene, he isn’t here. Chef Collins is working with Chef Matthews, and there’s a woman and two other dark-haired men in the space, but none is Eugene. I feel relief tinged with disappointment.
“Everyone, this is my niece, Jasmine,” Aunt Jay says. “She volunteered to help us today.”
All five people look in my direction.
“Nice to see you again, Jasmine,” Chef Matthews says. He’s butchering a slab of pork. “Do you remember Collins?”
“Yes, Chef,” I say. “Nice to see you both.”
“Thanks for helping out,” Collins says from the stove.
“Come with me, Jaz,” Aunt Jay says.
She hands me a chef’s coat and I remember this coat. It’s the one she got me when she owned Ventura’s. She surprised me with it the second Monday I went to the bistro. I never knew what happened to the jacket after the day I ran out. I figured she threw it out, but she kept it this whole time.
I put it on and follow her. Jay stops next to the blond woman.
“This is Annie Holloway,” Jay says. “She’s the pastry chef at the Encore.” Encore is an Orlando staple, famous for its elaborate desserts and after-dinner drinks.
“Hi, Jasmine,” Chef Holloway says. She’s running the industrial mixer with a huge amount of dough.
I follow Jay over to another stove.
“I think you’ve met Mario Gonzalez,” Jay says. She gently touches him on the shoulder and it’s an intimate graze that makes me look at her sideways.
He’s braising beef, but he smiles. Like Jay, Mario has his own catering company. I met him at a food and wine festival when Jay used to have her restaurant and I was volunteered by my parents to help carry things.
“Hey, Jasmine,” he says. “Glad you were able to come out.”
He smiles then winks at my aunt. I give her a “what’s going on there” glance that she pretends not to see. Instead, she leads me to another stainless-steel table where a chef is working on prep. He has a baseball cap on and his knife moves across vegetables at a dizzying speed.
“And this is Chris Wang. He’s the executive chef at Cadence.”
Cadence won best new restaurant in Orlando last year. They specialize in high-end Asian fusion. Like L&Js, I want to eat there. Like L&Js, I don’t have the money to go.
He glances at us, nods, and gets back to work.
“So, the plan is simple,” Jay says. “We’re not doing fancy, haute cuisine today. We decided to go back to our roots and make comfort dishes, because what people need most right now is some comfort. Jack happened to have a hog at his disposal—don’t ask. He and Collins are doing a riff on a boucherie—a nod to Collins’s Louisiana roots. They’re doing everything pork from salad to apps to the main, using the whole hog. Mario is making street tacos. Annie is baking bread and making éclairs and cookies because she’s an overachiever.”
Chef Holloway flips her off without turning around.
“Chris is making Szechuan chicken and vegetable bao. I’m going to do a four-cheese lasagna and meatballs. It’s up to you what you want to make, but it would be nice to have a side dish option.”
“Wait, I’m doing a cook?” I say. I point to my own chest like there’s someone behind me.
Jay stares at me like I’m new.
“I thought I was helping out,” I add.
“You are, but come up with your own dish too,” she says. “I didn’t bring you here just to be a prep bitch and fetch monkey. Cari could’ve done that.”
“Oh,” I say.
But why would she ask me to cook when she told me I don’t have what it takes? Is this just guilt? Pity?
“Think about what you want to make while you give Chef Wang a hand,” Jay says. “He’s doing a million buns because he’s also an overachiever.”
Chef Wang stops for a second to raise his middle finger and goes back to chopping and stirring.
I wash my hands then walk over to Chef Wang’s station. He’s busy speeding through dumplings. He has a dozen on a tray al
ready and he just started wrapping them.
“Thanks for helping out,” he says. “You’ve made bao before?”
“A few times with my friend’s family,” I say.
“Great.” He smiles. He’s around Jay’s age, maybe a couple of years younger. “Dive in.”
Concern mounts in my chest. I can’t pleat and move as quickly as he can. Those are hands like June’s mom. There’s muscle memory from having made thousands and thousands of bao in their lifetime. They could do it blindfolded and they’d all be perfect. My track record is not as good or long.
I hold the circle in my palm and spoon in the vegetable mixture. It’s not even cooked and it smells amazing. Chef Wang must’ve made this dough earlier because it’s super fresh. I wash the edges with egg wash and I try to get it to be any semblance of the ones on the tray. I finally finish sealing the bao and it’s lopsided. I sigh—it’s awful.
“You’re trying too hard to be something you’re not,” Chef Wang says.
I look up. It’s like he just read the story of my life.
“They don’t have to look like mine,” he says. “As long as they’re closed, they’re fine. Here, cup your hand and then pinch the folds quickly. Like this. The less you think about it, the easier it is.”
I glance at him skeptically.
“Work,” he says, pointing to my hands. Reluctantly, I try again.
“When I was growing up,” he murmurs, “my mother and grandmother would tell stories while they made bao in our little kitchen. Everything about where I grew up was small—our apartment, my pullout sofa, my popo. Anyhow, ma and popo would tell me about the monkey king and fox spirits—probably so I’d sit still, but also to pass the time. No one was focused on getting it just right. See? Much better.”
I look down and I’ve done one that’s nearly perfect. I put it on the tray next to my abomination.
“Your family is Italian?” he asks.
I have to explain this a lot. “On my mom’s side,” I say. “My dad’s side is Filipino, but I’m Korean.”
“That’s cool,” he says.
I wait for the follow-up question about my heritage or being adopted or if I know my “real” parents, but it doesn’t come. I keep working on bao.
The Jasmine Project Page 22