With the Fire on High(42)
I tune back in to Chef’s speech. “They’re ready to be wined and dined. Well not wined, that’d be illegal. Make it good, follow orders. Each group knows what they’re in charge of, right? Any menu questions can be directed at Emoni or me. Follow the recipes precisely. I got them down to the last grain of salt.” Chef gives me a look.
The whole class nods at Chef. I don’t know about anyone else, but it feels like even my butterflies have butterflies in their bellies. Next to me, Malachi hums Meek to himself. Without thinking, I take his hand and give it a light squeeze. He squeezes back and my nerves die down a bit. Although now my hand is tingling where we touched. I can’t win!
Everyone jumps to their stations and I meet Richard and Amanda at ours. We’re in charge of assembling spoonfuls of sweet-potato casserole but with a Spanish twist. That was my idea, a Southern holiday meal meets a twist of southern Spain. Most of the hors d’oeuvres were prepared beforehand so we just need to get them in the oven and put on the finishing garnishes. I begin scooping sweet-potato casserole onto ceramic serving spoons while Richard garnishes them with sugared walnuts and Spanish sausage. Three months ago, most of us had never even tried Spanish cuisine, and today we’re hosting a semi-Spanish-themed banquet.
We work like machines. I spoon and pass the bite to my left. Richard adds walnuts and sausage, and passes the plate. Amanda adds parsley and cleans the plate. Chili aioli would make this bomb. A sweet and savory bite. I almost walk to the spice cabinet, then stop myself.
That’s not the recipe.
We make trays and trays of food; some are set forward for the students who will begin serving. These are the skewers of winter veggies and single-serve portions of herbed stuffing with jamón ibérico—the less hearty bites. While the first course is being distributed the rest of us begin wiping down our stations. Our mini bites of sweet potato and mac and cheese will be going out next.
The night moves as chaotically and quickly as Angelica when she torpedoes into a room. Before I know it, the last course, individual apple pies, has gone out, and the only thing left to do is to file out and a take a bow.
It feels strange to leave the kitchen. As if I’m naked. Every recipe that went out had my thumbprint on it, and whether people enjoyed the meal falls on me.
A Numbers Game
Those of us who have been in the kitchen prepping enter the back of the gym and join the rest of our classmates who were serving. Chef Ayden has just been announced and he walks onstage. He wipes his huge hand on his chef’s coat before shaking the principal’s. Although we are the ones who have been cooking, his coat has just as many puffs of flour and sauce stains as ours do.
“As many of you have been hearing throughout the night, in addition to being our annual Winter Dinner, this meal has also served as a fund-raiser for our Culinary Arts class, which will be traveling to Spain during spring break. They’ve been working diligently throughout the first two quarters to raise money, and this was their culminating fund-raiser.”
Principal Holderness opens an envelope. Richard throws an arm over Amanda’s shoulder. I squeeze my hands into fists and hold my breath.
“And the final tally for the evening is . . . two thousand dollars!”
I quickly tally all the amounts from the lunches and auction revenue with tonight’s money. At fifteen dollars a ticket we have about two thousand dollars left after we cover the cost of the food. With the new total each individual owes about two hundred seventy-five dollars.
That’s more money than I have saved, especially with the balance being due by the end of the week. I blink back the tears in my eyes. This is a happy moment, Emoni. Something to be proud of. Don’t let them see you cry.
“Please put your hands together for the students who fed you well tonight, Culinary Arts Class Section Three.” Principal Holderness gestures to us in the back and at once the dim room is flooded with light so the guests can see us. I squint to adjust my eyes to the light and now I can see the room too. ’Buela sits at one of the front tables, and when everyone stands and claps for us she bounces up and down on the balls of her feet as if she wants to jump. I see Ant and June from the barbershop in their T-shirts and jeans, clapping with enthusiasm. Julio must have reached out to them. Ms. Martinez from next door is nodding as if she knew we’d be able to accomplish this all along. Around the whole room I spot neighbors, block homies, ’Buela’s church friends, directors from the cultural center, shop owners, all here to support a dream.
Malachi puts his arm around me and Amanda grabs my hand. “We did this. We fed two hundred and fifty people and showed them why we deserve their time and attention and money,” she says.
I nod around the lump in my throat. I don’t know how I’ll come up with my portion of the money, but I’m glad my ideas made it easier for the rest of the class. And she’s right: we made something special happen here tonight.
The night ends soon after that, and although we need to go to the kitchen to finish cleaning up, most of the class is dapping up homies and saying hi to family members. I’m carving a path over to ’Buela when a woman steps in my way.
“Excuse me?” She looks familiar but I can’t place her face.
I nod at her. “Can I help you?”
She puts out her hand and when I grasp it her handshake is firm and her palm is rough. “Chef told me to speak to you? Emoni, right?”