With the Fire on High(38)

I stop speaking and look down at my notes. Chef Ayden pauses before asking me, “The cafeteria staff usually does the Winter Dinner, don’t they?”

“We all need to learn how to serve, and that would be a great opportunity. We can propose it as one of the objectives: on-the-job experience.”

Chef cocks his head. “You’ve thought about this a lot, Emoni. I’m impressed. Except, the only class advanced enough to make acceptable food to feed to staff would be yours, and you all meet in the afternoon. If we want the lunch idea to work, people will have to come in early to cook. Do you think you can lead that?”

I hadn’t counted on more work. But I puff up my chest. I got this.





The Bright Side


“’Buela?” I call from the kitchen doorway as I dry off the freshly washed dishes.

I hear her chanclas shuffling down from her room. “M’ija? What’s going on? Baby Emma is asleep.”

I try not to let the disappointment show on my face. “Oh, I didn’t know you’d put her down. I didn’t get to say good night.” I glance at the microwave clock. When did it get past ten?

’Buela rests against the doorframe. “She dozed off. You know she has all that energy, running around, and then she eats, and boom, fast asleep. Pass me a rag so I can help with those.”

“Only a few left—I got them. I actually wanted to talk to you about something else. The trip to Spain. Even though I’m not sure if I’ll be able to raise enough to cover my portion, if I can pay for it I’m still not sure what I’ll do with Babygirl that week. I didn’t want to assume you would take on her care all by yourself.”

’Buela takes the rag from me and folds it up in a neat little square. “You want to ask for help from Tyrone and his family?”

I shake my head. “Tyrone has school and his parents work complicated hospital hours. They wouldn’t be able to pick her up and drop her off at daycare.”

’Buela sighs. “This is a big deal. I always wanted to travel, you know? I’ve only ever seen my island and Philadelphia. I said after retirement that your grandfather and me would see the world. And then he died, and, well.” She opens her hands as if in prayer. “And here we are. You may never get this opportunity again. I can call Tyrone’s parents, and between us, we can work out a schedule. Let’s think of it as a graduation present? Emoni, nena, speaking of graduation—you know I’m so proud of you, right? But you’re going to have to figure out what happens next. Have you gotten those school applications in? And that FAFSA form thing?”

I reach out and give ’Buela a tight hug, inhaling her familiar scent. She’s right, about all of it. I have a lot of decisions to make, but tonight I’m going to dream about cooking, and Spain, and graduation.





Team Player


“Emoni, can you blanch the asparagus and season it?” Richard calls from where he’s chopping onions. Amanda is absent today and I’ve been standing back less and helping out more. It’s hard to keep my hands from just doing, but Richard makes sure we stay on track, following the recipe down to the last half teaspoon.

I set the pot of water to boil and slice through the asparagus the way the recipe says.

Over his shoulder, Richard calls out the next instruction. “Oh, and the orzo, that needs to get going.”

Again, I nod, and get the necessary ingredients from the pantry. Richard is a heavyset kid who wears an oversized jacket and has the cutest little mole over his lip. I think his family is Polish, but Richard is straight Philly, from his haircut to his sneakers. We work down to the wire with him calling instructions and me trying to ensure I don’t do anything I’m not supposed to. Today is a testing day, which means that anything we place in front of Chef will be graded, plus we need to be able to answer questions about each of our dishes. Richard and Amanda always do well and I don’t want to mess up their track record. I measure the necessary salt and grind the fresh peppercorn, and squeeze only so much lemon. The garnish is the exact amount of thyme called for.

Across the room, Malachi has finished plating and is cleaning up his station, rapping underneath his breath. Leslie swings her hips and mimes being in front of a microphone. I look away from them, and Richard and I approach Chef. He turns the dish in several circles before sticking his fork in, closing his eyes.

“Asparagus is good, orzo is right. Skirt steak is right.” He opens his eyes. “The dish needs a little more salt, but otherwise, well done. I knew you could pull it off.” And although he is talking to Richard and me, I have a feeling the comment was for me.

Chef looks at me. “What’s the correct ratio of water to orzo?”

I answer him. He asks Richard a question about the temperature to cook a steak medium rare.

Another group stands behind us waiting to approach Chef, and I try to bite back the words bubbling in my mouth, but like a covered pot of boiling water, they spill over. “You need to change your measurement.”

Chef looks up from his grading. “Excuse me?”

I point to the recipe. “Your measurement of salt in the recipe, we followed it exactly. So if the dish needs more salt, you need to change your measurement.”

He raises an eyebrow and as we walk to our station, Richard elbows me in the ribs. “Seriously, Emoni? You couldn’t just let it go?”