Chapter One
If Iwere a vegetable, I would be… kohlrabi. Mildly difficult, but not overly so. Alittle spicy. Versatile. And highly underestimated.
Also,kohlrabi starts with a K. Like my name—Kaya.
Basically,it’s my spirit vegetable.
Thesewere the thoughts that occupied my mind at the end of a hectic night of serviceas I watched the braising parsnips with sniper-like sharpness.
Earliertonight, I’d already decided that if I were a fish, I’d be a sea urchin.
Andif I were a fruit, I’d be a jackfruit.
Iwas a little concerned that every persona I picked had bumps or spikes of somekind. Obviously, I’d picked the sea urchin for its cool factor. And because itwas one of those dishes that people either loved or hated. I was so that kindof person. Uni and I connected on a level even higher than spiritual.
Metaphoricallyspeaking, of course.
Uniwas basically the gonads of a sea urchin. That part I couldn’t relate to atall.
AndI connected to jackfruit because of its versatility. It was also high in fiber.So. There was that.
Shakingmy head, I pulled the pan off the flame and decided not to think too hard aboutmy choices. It didn’t hurt that most children would be afraid to touch any ofthe items I picked. And even adults were afraid to eat them. That didn’t meananything. This was a dumb game to pass the time since I’d been shuffled to thesides station tonight, instead of my favorite station—protein.
Asthe sous chef in one of the hottest kitchens in Durham, North Carolina, workingthe sides station was a major insult to my talent and I needed something toentertain and distract myself.
Noneof this mattered.
Exceptthat my parsnips looked fantastic and they were ready to finish. I scooped themout of the boiling water and added them to a bowl, so I could salt them beforetossing them with the maple syrup reduction.
Mylips pressed into a frown aimed at the parsnips and stayed there while I platedthem. Adding chopped candied pecans, I rethought my life choices—at least myfood-as-soulmates choices.
If Iwere a dessert, I’d be… ice cream.
There.Not spiky.
Liar, my inner voice taunted.
Shut up, I spat back.I love ice cream. Ice cream is my favorite.
Whichof course was another lie.
Key limepie is my favorite. The tarter, the better.
Again,I decided to ignore whatever direct implications that had on my personality andfocused on work.
Handingover the parsnips to one of my coworkers, he added a sloppy looking chickenroulade to finish the dish.
Ifit had been an hour earlier, I probably would have called him on his crap preparationof the protein, but I was too tired at this point. And it was past the hourfood bloggers and critics would have a table. Or at least I hoped it was.
Myboss leaned in and studied the plate like it held the secret cure for cancer.If only he could read the signs in the parsnips, we could save the world.
Iswallowed the urge to clear my throat and get his attention. It wouldn’t leadto anything good. I had a sneaking suspicion my true intention was to flash mymiddle finger at him because of how he glowered at my handiwork. And the extrafew seconds he took to wipe the edges of the plate as if I had done a poor jobof it myself.
Ofcourse, he didn’t notice the roulade. Why would he? That eyesore was prepared,cooked and finished by a good old boy. Someone he could rely on strictly becausethey sported uni and egos the size of North Carolina.
Tartwas an understatement. If I were a key lime pie at this point in the night,those limes would be downright bitter.
WyattShaw placed the plate on a tray and called a waiter forward to take it.
