Stir It Up (9 page)

It’s hard to swallow, but I manage.

“I don’t think anyone at my school has heard from Stuyvesant,” I mumble.

Anand says, “My friend’s brother Jason got his results.”

My dad stops eating. “Maybe we should call the Board of Ed tomorrow, just to see where things are in the process.”

My eyes are stuck to my plate. I take a deep breath.

“Dad,” I say softly, then look from my father to Deema, “I have something to say.” I put down my fork. “You don’t have to call the Board of Ed. I didn’t get in to Stuyvesant.”

“Why didn’t you tell us? Where’s the letter?” Dad wants to know.

“There wasn’t a letter.”

“How yuh mean there wasn’t a letter?” Dad’s voice is rising.

There’s disappointment on Dad’s face. Mom’s, too. Deema folds her arms. She’s looking at me curiously.

“I never took the test,” I whisper.

“What?”
Mom looks like I’ve told her there’s a rat in the room.

Anand leans across the table. “Whoa.”

“I never took it. I went to the tryout for the Food Network show instead,” I admit.

“How yuh mean?” my dad says. There’s anger in his voice.

“The tryout at the Food Network for the
Super Chef Kids
show.” I’m talking fast and furious. “I know you said no, but this is the chance of a lifetime to get my own TV show. I can take the Stuyvesant test next year.” Then I tell them about bringing Chef Nyla with me to the audition as my “guardian.”

“You did what?”
Now Dad’s looking like I’ve committed a crime. Mom’s shaking her head. She can’t believe what she’s hearing. Deema looks disappointed, hurt.

Anand covers his mouth with his hand. He’s mumbling something I can’t hear.

“Anand, eat your food!” Mom says sharply. “Anjali, what on earth were you thinking?” she asks.

Dad is barely holding on to his fury. “That test at Stuyvesant was your future.”

“If I can get my own TV show, it won’t matter where I go to school,” I say pleadingly. “Imagine how much money I’ll make. I’ll be a famous chef!”

Dad starts tapping his fork on the table while I speak.

“I done told yuh I had enough of this chef business, and now this.” His voice is so quiet, scarier than when he’s yelling. “Your hobby has turned yuh into a cheat and a liar.”

“But —”

He puts up his hand. “No, stop talking now. I don’t want to hear anything more about this. You will not watch any more cooking shows. Yuh only gonna prepare food in our shop. No more special cooking or cooking classes. This is over.”

“But —” I look at Deema. “Deema, please, I —”

Deema shakes her head. Her eyes are moist.

“Listen to your father, child,” she says quietly.

This is all too much. Even Deema is ganging up on me.

“You’ll change your mind when I win!” I burst out. “Let’s see what you say when
that
letter comes!”

“Get up from the table now, Anjali,” my father says, pushing his plate away and standing up.

I stare furiously at Dad, then at my mother and Deema. I give Anand an evil look, too.

I stand up quickly, knowing my chair will fall backward. “You don’t care about what I want! If you love Stuyvesant so much, why don’t
you
go there!”

I run to my room and slam the door, kicking it once, hard, from the inside.

1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper

3/4 teaspoon coarse salt

1/2 teaspoon onion powder

1/2 teaspoon garlic powder

1 cup canola oil

1 fifteen-ounce can chickpeas, drained and dried in a salad spinner or with paper towels

1. In a small bowl, whisk together the black pepper, cayenne pepper, salt, and onion and garlic powders. Set aside.

2. Heat the oil in a deep frying pan on medium heat until a deep-frying thermometer reaches 375 degrees Fahrenheit, or until a pinch of flour dropped into the pan sizzles.

3. Carefully add the chickpeas by gently spooning them into the frying pan using a long-handled metal spoon. Place a splatter screen over the frying pan. The chickpeas will splatter and pop quite a bit while frying.

4. Allow the chickpeas to fry for 3 to 4 minutes or until their outsides begin to look golden brown. Remove the chickpeas from the pan using a slotted spoon and place them on a large tray lined with paper towels.

5. When all the chickpeas are fried, place them in a deep bowl and add the spice mixture, stirring well so that all of the chickpeas are coated. Allow to cool. Serve as a snack.

Makes 4 servings

After school, I walk slowly down Liberty Avenue toward Island Spice. I hate working at our shop now, with my father speaking to me only to give orders.

The worst part is not being able to go to the culinary school to work with Nyla. I called to tell her how my family reacted to my audition, and I told her the truth about missing the test at Stuyvesant. She was so disappointed in me. Even so, I miss her.

I walk into Island Spice and pass my father on my way to the back room, where I dump my stuff. Dad’s busy talking to customers.

I go to the worktable, where Deema is shredding salted codfish for the next morning’s breakfast.

“Hi, Deema.”

“Bayti
,” she says. “Something came for you in the mail. It looks important.”

Deema dries her hands on the side towel looped through her apron strings and goes into the back room. She comes out holding an envelope.

The envelope says Scripps on it. That means Food Network. My stomach lurches.

“It’s from the Food Network, Deema.” My mouth is dry.

Deema puts down the knife she’s holding.

“Well, open it.”

I force the envelope open with my finger, tearing the flap unevenly. I tug at the letter inside.

I stop reading and scream.

“What, what is it?” Deema is alarmed. Dad comes running.

“I made it! I made it!” I’m jumping up and down and waving the letter. “I’m a finalist!”

“For that show?” my father asks.

“Yes!” I say, flapping the envelope. “I told you! See? It
was
worth it!”

Dad crosses his arms. “What else it say?”

I finish reading the letter. “It says the finals are
three weeks from Saturday and that I’m the kid chef chosen from the New York area.”

I read further, silently to myself. Like the other letter, it says I have to bring a parent or guardian. I look nervously at my father. I read this part out loud to him.

Dad storms out of the room.

“Deema, you’ll go with me, right?” I ask.

She picks up her knife. “Let’s see what happens, darlin’.”

I worry for the rest of the evening while I clean tables, help Deema trim vegetables, and dish out food for customers.

When things get quiet, Deema and I sit down to eat our own dinner. I’m not hungry.

I get up to bring our plates inside and pass the door to our shop’s office, where my father’s on the phone, behind a closed door. It sounds like he’s talking to my mother.

“Can you believe it?” he’s saying. “I know that the girl can cook, for true.” He pauses.

I stand there frozen for a few seconds before I realize I better move or I’ll get caught listening.

Later, at home, I’m in bed, trying to sleep. It’s way past midnight. Dad has just come from the shop. Mom’s studying. The house is quiet, so I can hear Mom and Dad talking.

“I’ve been thinking,” Dad says to Mom.

“Me, too,” says Mom.

“About Anjali and this cooking show?” Dad asks.

“It’s been on my mind all day,” says Mom.

I hear rustling. The floorboards creak. “Nobody invite me to this party,” says Deema. “So I invite myself.”

Mom says, “We’re talking about Anjali.”

“Bayti
,” says Deema. “That child has been given to us by the heavens as special gift. She know her way ’round the kitchen — and she full of spice, too.”

“She gets that from her father,” Mom says.

“She get that from all of us,” Deema says. “We from the island where everything spicy.”

Dad says, “Anjali has betrayed us with her dishonesty.”

“She shouldn’t have lied,” says Deema. “But we betray Anjali by not letting her have her joy, and by denying her the gift heaven has given her to share with others. That is a betrayal worse than lying.”

There’s silence.

Deema keeps talking. “You want to be a nurse,” she says to Mom. “You study. You work hard. When you become a nurse, you’ll help people feel good. The same for Anjali. The way she cook — with ideas flowing from her like the sweet water from a coconut — also helps people feel good.”

Dad tries to get a word in. “But she —”

Deema stops him. “But she works so hard for you at the shop — serving, wiping tables, smiling at customers. Now it’s our turn to work for her. Our girl. Our
bayti.
”

“How yuh mean, work?” Dad asks.

“Work past your stubbornness,” Deema says.

More quiet.

Then Dad speaks. “One thing I know,” he says. “We not quitters in this family. Anjali’s started something, and now she must finish it.”

“For true,” says Deema.

My mom brushes something only she can see from my shirt and fusses with the tie on my apron. I’m back at the Food Network studios. This time Mom and Deema have come with me, while Dad works at the shop. Mom, Deema, and I stand with the other two finalists in the greenroom, waiting to go out to the set.

This time my opponents are a guy who looks to be sixteen and a girl about seventeen. I’m the youngest contestant.

The guy, Randolph, has a Mohawk. His lip is pierced with three rings. He’s wearing black nail polish, a black T-shirt, black jeans, black sneakers, and a black apron. The girl, who is called Brooklyn but is actually from California, is blond and calls herself a surfer chick.

Deema seems to be enjoying herself, talking a lot to Randolph, asking about his piercings.

Mom keeps adjusting my clothes and hair.

I’m nervous about this contest. It’s a market basket, right from the beginning. I’m not going to be able to cook something I’ve prepared before, and I’m
worried all over again that the ingredients will be something I never cook, like beef or pork.

Anyway, I’m not too sure what I would do if that happens. When I tell this to Deema she suggests that I prepare beef or pork the same way I’d make a dish with chicken. Good idea, but I still don’t feel confident.

Brenda comes hustling in, outfitted with her microphone and black box.

“Okay, contestants, this is it,” she says. “Follow me.”

When we get to the studio, she shows the parents where to sit. The judges wave at us as we file past them. When we get to the kitchen area, we’re each assigned a station, same as before.

Quade is ready with his mic in place, and before I know it, they’re counting down to filming.

I look over at the judges. Daisy Martinez is there with Sam Vitelli and Connor Sebastian. They’re sitting forward, looking very eager. My head is starting to hurt.

Quade is talking now, so I turn my focus to him.

“Our finalists will be cooking an original creation from a list of secret ingredients we are about to reveal.” He pauses, then dramatically pulls a white
cloth off a tray of ingredients. There’s some reddish meat, red and green peppers, bacon, creole rice, and chilies. “The main ingredient our contestants will have to work with tonight is rabbit tenderloins! Don’t go away, folks. We’ll be right back as the kitchen heats up here on
Super Chef Kids
!”

I feel dizzy, like I’m going to throw up. I never in my life thought of rabbit as anything but a cute fuzzy pet.
Rabbit?
I turn around so I’m not facing the judges and blow air out of my mouth.
What am I going to do with rabbit?

Get ahold of yourself, Anjali,
I’m thinking. But the rabbit thing has thrown me for too much of a loop.

I focus on the creole rice, which we make with chicken in my house. At least I know it can be adapted.

“And we’re back for the final showdown between our young contestants,” Quade is saying. “The three young people — Anjali, Randolph, and Brooklyn — beat out some amazing young cooks from around the country to get here.”

While Quade talks, I start to gather the ingredients I need from the refrigerator and the staples pantry.
Peanut butter, onions, garlic, tomato. I start dicing the peppers. I add chopped onions for extra flavor.

Randolph is stroking his chin and nodding before he dashes off and starts rummaging through his own pantry. Brooklyn is carefully sharpening a filleting knife.

Quade is by my side, talking. “Anjali impressed the judges last time. Can she do it again?”

Before I can say anything, he’s dashed off.
Good,
I think,
it’s easier to cook without him bugging me.

I heat a heavy pot and add the chopped onions and pepper. I glance up at my mother and Deema, who look worried. I close my eyes and try to focus by concentrating on the smell the onions give off while they cook — sweet, pungent, soothing, reminding me of home.

When the onions are soft, I add the bacon. I’m winging it now, based on what I’ve learned watching TV shows. I’ve never cooked bacon before. Quade is talking to Brooklyn, who is pounding what looks like the rabbit meat. At his station, Randolph has gotten out a food processor and is grinding the meat into a paste while he fries up the bacon on the stove.

I look down at my pot. There’s too much oil. The bacon released a lot of fat. I look around in a panic and grab a pot spoon. I’ll have to skim off some of the fat or the dish will be too greasy. I grab the handle of the iron pot to tilt it forward but drop it fast. I’ve forgotten to use my side towel to grip the hot handle. The pot lands on the stove with a loud clatter. I step away, stamping my foot.

Quade is at my station. “Looks like our New York contender is having a bit of trouble today,” he says into the camera. “The pressure is on!”