Stir It Up (4 page)

Soon it’s time to start preparing. I move closer to Deema, who is still talking to the father and daughter and discussing a plan for today’s cooking assignment.

Deema introduces me. “Anjali, this is Don and Kerry. They’d like to work as a table team, and I think that’s a great idea. We can all get the ingredients together, then let each team take two or three recipes.”

Deema explains that she and I work in our roti shop.

“Okay, then,” says Don cheerfully, slapping his hands together. “We are all yours, Rosie! Glad to have the guidance!”

Soon we’re all busy dashing to the dry goods station at the back of the kitchen, measuring out flour, sugar, salt, and spices into plastic cups and stainless steel bowls. We measure out precise weights of ground shrimp and chicken breast on parchment paper laid across the scale. I place sheets of parchment paper on large sheet trays and use a black Sharpie marker
to divide each sheet in half. Next, I write the recipe names on the bottom of each half of the sheet and neatly line up the ingredients for that recipe on top.

“What do you think, Rosie?” Don is saying to Deema. “What if Kerry and I start the empanada filling?”

“Good, good,” she answers. “We’ll start skewering the chicken and getting the grilling sauce ready.”

Over the next two hours we work steadily on our recipes, making mushroom risotto that we form into golf ball—size shapes, tucking pieces of cheese into their middles, then breading and deep-frying them. We make a black-olive tapenade, tiny spinach quiches, and chicken skewers that we grill with peanut
satay
sauce.

The most fun to make are the finger-size empanadas, which are little turnovers stuffed with meat, vegetables, or even fruit as a dessert. Ours are stuffed with shrimp we have ground in the food processor with chili peppers and cilantro and then fried in oil with onions and garlic.

I make the dough as Kerry makes the shrimp. I love the way flour feels on my skin, silky and smooth,
how it can change to anything from a gooey paste to hard like a rock. I add salt and swirl the flour around with my fingers, enjoying the feeling, before adding bits of butter, which I squeeze into the dough. Finally, I add ice water, drop by drop, pinching the dough into balls and placing it in the refrigerator to cool down.

While we wait for the dough to chill, we make a dessert of coconut
panna cottas
topped with finely chopped papaya, mango, and passion fruit that has been tossed lightly with a little lime juice.

“Here, let’s add this, too,” I say, holding the small pile of mint I’ve chopped. I take in its clean, green aroma before holding my hand up in front of Kerry to smell, too.

“Smells like gum,” she says, and laughs. I laugh, too, while I mix the mint into the chopped fruit.

While we work, Don teases my grandmother cheerfully, and she teases him back. I overhear him say he’s an investment banker who lives in Manhattan. Kerry is his youngest child — she was born when he was fifty — and he and her mother are divorced.

“Where do you go to school?” asks Kerry. We’re cooking the risotto, stirring in chicken stock.

“Forest Hills School. You?” I answer.

“I go to Manhattan Country Day,” she says. “Do you like Forest Hills?”

“It’s okay. My parents want me to take the Stuyvesant test, though.”

Stuyvesant is a special high school for smart kids that is located in downtown Manhattan. You have to take a test to get in and it’s free if you do because it’s a public school. Thousands of kids from every borough take the test, hoping to get accepted. “You don’t seem happy about it,” says Kerry.

“It’s not that I’m not happy about it, I just really want to go to a school that also has a culinary program, like C-CAP — you know, the Careers through Culinary Arts Program?”

“Really?” says Kerry. She looks surprised. “No offense, I thought those programs were for the, uh, the special ed kids. Or at least those who probably won’t go to college. You seem pretty smart, not like them.”

I laugh. “Well, thanks,” I say, giggling. “I know people think that, and it’s partly true, I guess. But a lot of kids who are doing well in school do the program, too. The problem is you have to go to regular public school to get into C-CAP. Forest Hills is private.”

“And let me guess, there is no way your parents want you to go to regular public school, right?”

“Right.” I sigh. “You got it.”

Just then Chef Nyla walks up behind us, placing a hand on each of our shoulders. “Looking good, girls,” she says pleasantly. “Just keep on stirring.”

“Um, Chef?” I say tentatively as Chef Nyla is turning to go to the next station.

“Yes, Anjali?”

“One second …” I hand the spoon to Kerry. “Could you take over for a minute?” Kerry shrugs and takes the spoon.

“I have something for you,” I say, moving toward our table. Reaching into my notebook, I pull out the curry chicken recipe.

“This is my grandmother’s Easy Curry Chicken recipe. You said you like Trini food.” I stop, embarrassed.

Chef Nyla takes the page and scans it with interest.

“Thank you,” she says, smiling. “Deema’s Easy Curry Chicken. This is great, Anjali! One of my favorite Trinidad dishes, made even more special because it’s your grandmother’s own recipe. Actually, I have something I want to give you, too. Can you see me after class?”

“Sure. Of course. Yeah.”

The class comes to an end all too soon for me, and the groups work together plating their dishes and setting them in the middle of the tables. There is grape juice sangria with orange, nectarine, and apple slices floating on top. The school staff has set out plates and silverware. Everyone takes their places at the table.

We all eat, trying one another’s dishes, complimenting on tastes, asking about spices, and chatting about our love of food. Afterward, we divide the leftovers in the takeaway tins the school provides for that purpose. As I pack my bag, I see Don still talking excitedly to Deema. He hands her a card and Deema smiles at him. Chef Nyla comes up to me, holding a piece of paper in her hand.

“Anjali, this is what I wanted you to have,” she says. I take the paper and begin to read about a Food Network contest for a new show called
Super Chef Kids.
“I think you could do this,” Chef Nyla is saying. “You are a natural cook and you’re dedicated. I’d like to see you try out.”

I look from the paper to my teacher. My stomach starts to flutter. This is exactly the kind of break I’ve been dreaming of. “Really?” I say hopefully.

“Yes,
really,
Anjali. I hope you do it,” she says, smiling and giving my arm a squeeze. “I wrote down my e-mail address on the paper if you want my help with the essay or the application.”

“I’m so excited the only thing I can manage to say is thanks!”

“No problem. I’ll talk to you soon,” says the chef, beginning to unbutton her jacket and walking out of the room. She stops by Deema and says good-bye, shaking her hand and Don’s, then waving to Kerry as she leaves.

I look down again at the paper in my hand. It says there has to be an essay and a short home video as part of the submission. Maybe Linc will help me with
that. He got a very good digital video camera for his birthday over the summer. The application says that if they like you, there will be a tryout at the Food Network studios. My heart begins to pound — hard. I read every word of the fine print. The deadline for the application is November 15, only three weeks away. I’ll have to ask Linc to help over one of the upcoming weekends. I keep reading, trying to skim it all quickly before Deema calls me to leave.

“Ready,
bayti
?” she says from the doorway.

Looking up at my grandmother, I quickly fold the paper and put it in the pocket of my notebook.

“Yes, Deema, I’m coming.”

4 boneless chicken breasts, cut into 1/2-inch cubes

3 tablespoons chopped onion

2 cloves garlic, chopped

1 1/2 teaspoons chopped fresh
shado beni
or cilantro

1 teaspoon ground cumin

3 tablespoons Trinidad curry powder

2 tablespoons canola oil

3/4 cup chicken stock

1 medium Yukon gold potato, peeled and cut into 1/2-inch cubes

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/2 cup coconut milk

1. Make the marinade: In a medium bowl, mix the onion, garlic,
shado beni
or cilantro, cumin, and 2 teaspoons of the curry powder. Coat the chicken in the marinade and
set aside for at least 20 minutes but preferably overnight in the refrigerator.

2. Heat the oil in a deep saucepan and add the marinated chicken cubes. Add the remaining curry powder and mix well. Sauté for 2 to 3 minutes.

3. Add the chicken stock, potatoes, and salt. Simmer for 15 minutes and continue to cook until the sauce thickens, about 5 minutes more.

4. Add the coconut milk and simmer for 3 minutes more. Taste and adjust the seasonings as desired. Serve with rice or rotis.

Makes 4 servings

Where r u? All rdy,
I text on the hand-me-down Nokia phone my father gave me. I hate this phone. It’s a freebie that came with the calling plan, and it’s so old that the numbers and letters are almost rubbed off. Linc has an iPhone, and most of the other kids at school have an iPhone or BlackBerry or some other smartphone. When I’m with them, I try to never take out my cell unless I absolutely have to, to answer a call from my parents.

At s’way,
comes Linc’s reply. That’s good. It means he’s just gotten off the bus at the subway station at Liberty.

For my TV audition video, I’m planning to make my famous Coconut Dark Chocolate Chip Cookies, which I spike with coconut flakes and gourmet chocolate made from cocoa beans from Trinidad if I can get it. It’s expensive and cuts into my allowance savings, but for something like this it’s worth it. Besides, they’re Linc’s favorite cookies and it will be a nice gift for his help.

“Anj?” Linc’s voice comes through our kitchen window. He’s yelling up from the front sidewalk. I run down the stairs and let him in.

“What’s going on?” he says as he steps over the threshold.

“Everything is ready,” I say, locking the dead bolt behind him.

“Cool,” he answers, taking the steps two at a time. When we reach the kitchen, Linc pulls the iPod earbuds out of his ears and neatly wraps them around his iPhone. Next, he pulls out a video camera that’s small enough to fit in the palm of his hand.

“That’s it?” I say doubtfully.

“Yep, that’s it,” says Linc, smiling. “It’s small but mighty. Great digital quality.”

I shrug. I’ll have to take Linc’s word for it. He’s the gadget geek, not me.

“Okay, so I figure we’ll just start with an intro about me and then I’ll start making the cookies,” I say. “I’ve been rehearsing.”

“Don’t worry, we can do multiple takes,” Linc says. “I’m going to edit the video on my Mac and even
add a little intro music. Maybe some steel pan drums. Or I found this song called ‘Kuchela.’”

“Really? ‘Kuchela’?”

Kuchela
is a condiment made from hot peppers and grated green mangoes. It’s spicy and tangy and delicious to eat with curry, but it’s hard to think someone could write a song about it.

“Yeah, really,” he says, turning on the camera and slowly panning it over the bowls and the stand mixer, one of my prized purchases I bought with allowance and Christmas money saved up over two years. “Just leave the filming to me,” Linc says.

I take my place behind the counter and try to look serious and professional. Linc puts the camera down. “Anj, you have to smile. Look happy. Who’s going to want to watch a pissy-looking cook?”

“I’m not pissy looking,” I snap. “I’m just waiting for you to say start.”

“Okay then … action!”

Trying hard not to roll my eyes, I stretch my mouth in what I hope will seem like a big, happy, not too fake smile.

“Hi, I’m Anjali Krishnan, and I’m from Richmond
Hill, Queens — or as some people call it, Little Trinidad — here in New York City. I’m in eighth grade at the Forest Hills School. Cooking is my most favorite hobby. Today I’m going to make an old favorite with a new twist, Coconut Dark Chocolate Chip Cookies. The great thing about these cookies is that there’s something for every kid to do while making them, so no one has to be left out.”

Linc gives me a thumbs-up sign from behind the camera. I reach toward the butter and drop it in the mixer. I pick up the brown sugar and add that, too.

“Cut! Cut!” yells Linc, making me jump.

“What? What is it?”

“You have to tell us what you’re doing!” he says. “Think about all the Food Network chefs — they say
what
they’re doing while they’re doing it.”

“Oh! Okay,” I say. “Good point. But you don’t have to yell. This isn’t a movie set.” I look down at the butter and sugar in the bowl and frown.

“I don’t have any more butter and sugar,” I say. “What do I do?”

Linc puts down the camera and considers this for a minute. “Well, how about I film you walking over
to the mixer and saying something like ‘I already have the butter and sugar in the bowl to start the cookies.’ Oh, and say the amounts. They always say the amounts.”

I nod and walk back toward the end of the counter.

“And … action!” yells Linc, making me jump again.

I walk toward the mixer, put my hand on the switch, and say, “I already have two sticks of softened, unsalted butter and three-quarters of a cup of brown sugar in the bowl.” I reach across to another bowl on the counter and begin to pour from that. “Now I’m adding three-quarters of a cup of white sugar. We’ll blend all of this on medium speed until light and fluffy — about four minutes.”

Linc gives me the thumbs-up and again puts the camera down. “I’m going to do a close-up of the bowl, then start filming you in the last thirty seconds of mixing. No one wants to watch a mixing bowl churning away for four minutes.”

I nod and step aside so he can get a good view into the mixer. For the next half an hour we keep
filming, with me adding ingredients and then pausing while they mix. Sometimes I flub the words and have to start again. I glance at the clock. Forty-five minutes have passed. We only have a little over another hour to get this done. With all this stopping and starting we’ll need every minute of it. I thought this whole thing would take only twenty minutes, the time it takes to mix up the cookie dough. I didn’t figure on how many times you’d have to do something to get it right on film.