Love & Other Disasters(4)

It took far longer than Dahlia had anticipated, but finally, finally, over an hour and many surprisingly specific instructions later, it was time to cook.

The first challenge was always simple, open ended. Each contestant cooked whatever they wanted to showcase their personal styles, their signature skills. Everyone knew this, had time to plan for it for weeks.

She in fact didn’t trip on the mad dash to the pantry. As soon as Dahlia got her hands on some limes, she felt calm. Back at her station, she swept her dark hair onto the top of her head as the red clock embedded in the judges’ table clicked away, and she made a game plan. She was vaguely aware that Jacob was making filet mignon, that Strawberry Blond Grunting Face behind her was making lamb. She knew it would be this way.

On every cooking show she’d ever watched, everyone always jerked off to proteins she hardly ever cooked with. All of that stuff cost money. Money a single, recently divorced copy editor didn’t have.

Honestly, the only protein Dahlia could really afford, if she ever stuck to her budget, was canned tuna. But she preferred vegetarian dishes anyway. One could do some pretty amazing things with fresh produce, flour, grains, eggs, and a shit ton of spices. Perfecting homemade pasta was the first true balm to her soul last year after she moved out of the house she had shared with David, to be truly on her own for the first time in her life.

Vegetarian dishes didn’t win Chef’s Special.

But. Dahlia had grown up by the rocky shores of New England. She currently lived by the brackish waters of Chesapeake Bay. She knew seafood, too.

Not that fish tacos were really a signature of either New England or the Chesapeake. But whatever, who wanted to mess with crabs and lobsters, which had always seemed to her like more work than they were worth? She could have her way with a slab of cod and still have fun with all the other stuff. Marinade to mix, fresh tortillas to grill, cabbage to chop, jalape?os to mince. Colors, flavors, juices. The brighter and saucier the food, the more joy Dahlia took from it.

She had no idea whether fish tacos would be too basic for the judges or not, but she knew they would taste good and they would look pretty, and those were the only building blocks Dahlia had to work with.

So she juiced, she mixed, she grilled, she chopped, she cooked. She made a plan and followed it. She smiled at the judges and answered their amiable banter when they stopped by her station. She tried not to think about the cameras, tried not to look at the judges’ faces as they sampled her food. Tried not to think about lamb or steak.

And even though this first day of filming had already seemed to take a million hours, the sixty minutes they had to cook truly did fly by. Somehow there were only five minutes left, and Dahlia felt tense but good, this rush of adrenaline wiping all other thoughts from her mind. Her hands were steady as she plated. She even had an extra minute to tidy her station.

When Tanner Tavish yelled, “Time’s up!,” her arms fell to her sides. Her feet took a step back.

And that was when Dahlia started to shake.

Which she hoped wasn’t noticeable in all of these high-definition cameras, or to the judges in front of her, who had been around the world and cooked in Michelin-starred restaurants. Who walked around set like they owned the joint. Because they did. At worst, she hoped her trembles were only noticed by Freckled Grumpypants behind her, whose opinion of her probably couldn’t get any lower at this point anyway.

There was a brief break, as Janet and the production assistants and the judges huddled and pointed and discussed who knew what. Contestants’ plates were adjusted slightly, perfected for the cameras. Contestants ran to the bathroom, laughed nervously with each other. Dahlia stood in place, biting her lip.

And then they were back.

And Audra Carnegie said her name.

Seriously?

She would be the first to have her food judged?

Dahlia had no idea whether this was a blessing or a curse. But she did know her nerves were still recovering from sixty minutes of hyper-focus.

Closing her eyes for just a second, she took another yoga breath. She placed her hands underneath her plate. She stepped away from her station. She rounded the table.

And she tripped.

The world went in slow motion, a torturous horror film. From outside of her body, Dahlia saw Sai Patel rush forward, hands outstretched, brown eyes wide. She thought she heard someone curse. Had there been something in her way? An upturned snag of electrical tape? Or had she, Dahlia Woodson, for the love of all that was holy, really tripped over her own feet after she had made her very first meal on national TV?

Oh dear lord. She was going to literally fall flat on her face.

Somewhere, in the recesses of her brain, she thought, Well, naturally, before her mind went numb. The studio lights were blinding as starbursts of rice, ribbons of purple cabbage, and a playful dash of lime crema took flight moments before her body slammed onto the floor.





CHAPTER TWO


London just needed a moment to themself.

They had stepped into this dim hotel bar to find it, escaping to this grimy table in the corner, crumbs and drink rings littering its surface. Just one moment to themself. They could have continued up to their hotel room to decompress after this entirely too long first day of filming. But their hotel room didn’t have bourbon.

The first taste had felt so good, burning the back of their throat in exactly the way they desired. Cold, strong, a kick of home. It cleared their mind, just a touch. Another glass, and they might clear this whole funky headspace entirely. They had performed well today, but that was likely only because they had practiced making that lamb approximately ninety-eight times.