“Goodness,” Mrs. Maine said, feigning concern. “It must have gone down the wrong pipe.”
“Actually, it’s…incredibly spicy,” I managed to say between coughs before disposing of the rest of the dish. “Thank you.”
I wiped my mouth with a napkin, trying to regain my composure as I walked back to Gabriella’s tent. She was busy plating her honey-bacon nachos, each one arranged like a work of art. “Gabriella, believe me when I say you have nothing to worry about. Mrs. Maine’s dish tastes like a sugary volcano erupted in my mouth.”
“Really?” she asked, eyebrows raised.
“Trust me,” I said. I took a moment to fan my tongue. “It’s like a funnel cake and a firecracker had a baby.”
Elijah erupted into laughter. But in his excitement, he stumbled and tipped over the platter of nachos. The carefully crafted bites tumbled to the ground, each second stretching into eternity. The nachos seemed to float before crashing down in a catastrophic sprawl. “Aaagh, no!” Gabriella cried out, hands flying to her cheeks. Elijah stared at the mess, eyes wide and filling with tears as he realized what he had done.
“I’m so sorry, Gabriella,” he choked out. “I’ve ruined everything.”
“Here, let me help,” I offered, joining her on the ground. Together, we scrambled to rescue as many nachos as possible, the clock mercilessly ticking away above us.
“Time’s almost up!” called the announcer, sending another wave of distress. “Five minutes.”
Gabriella and I exchanged panicked glances, our hearts racing as we tried to make up for lost time.
“Okay, okay,” Gabriella muttered under her breath, her hands moving quickly as she turned up the heat on the stove. “Remember the oven?” she asked me.
“Yeah.”
Her confidence seemed to zip through me.
“We did it then. Let’s get ’er done again.”
Gabriella turned up the heat and slapped more bacon on the grill. The bacon sizzled furiously, spitting grease onto the stovetop. “Joyce, could you help me with the tortillas?”
“Of course,” I replied, grabbing a pair of tongs and flipping the tortillas over in the cast-iron skillet. The scents of cinnamon and honey were now overshadowed by the unmistakable aroma of burning food.
Our outdoor kitchen was a whirlwind of activity as the three of us worked feverishly to salvage the dish. Elijah sprinkled cinnamon and sugar like nobody’s business. But despite our best efforts, the bacon wasn’t as crispy as it should’ve been, and the cinnamon and sugar hadn’t had enough time to truly soak into the tortillas.
“Time’s up!” the announcer called, signaling the end of the cook-off. Gabriella plated the nachos as best she could, her eyes filled with determination even as disappointment danced across her furrowed brow.
I squeezed her arm. “Gabriella, you did your best. It might not be perfect, but it’s still delicious.” It was also better than Mrs. Maine’s, but I didn’t want to try humor at the moment.
Tears welled up in Elijah’s eyes as he watched Gabriella place the final garnishes on the plate. “I’m so sorry, Gabriella,” he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion.
“Hey,” Gabriella said gently, wiping away her own tears. “It’s okay, Elijah. We all make mistakes. What’s important is that we learn from them and move forward.” She hugged him tightly with her free arm, offering forgiveness and understanding.
I took back all the bad things I’d thought about Gabriella. The tenderness she showed Elijah deserved some payback, and I made up in my mind that I’d do whatever it took to get her the kitchen she thought she’d signed up for when she moved into the duplex. The kitchen she deserved. Young folk need somebody in their corner, after all.
Elijah and I followed Gabriella to the judges’ table. We stopped at the front row of onlookers, and she proceeded without us. I wondered if this was what a father felt like when he gave his daughter away at the altar.Goodness gracious, this is nerve-racking.
My grandson and I held hands when it was Gabriella’s turnto stand before the panel, the judges’ eyes scrutinizing our hastily prepared dish. I could feel Gabriella’s nerves radiating off her as she described the honey-bacon nachos with pride, not mentioning the mishap that had occurred just minutes before. The unique blend of flavors, inspired by her Blaxican heritage, shone through despite the imperfect presentation.
“Is the bacon fully cooked?” one judge asked, his eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion. The limp nacho chip in his hand had nearly lost its coating. It was clearly not Gabriella’s best work.
Gabriella hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath. Cleared her throat. “I did have to hurry with it because there was a mishap; my tray of food fell to the ground only five minutes ago.” Her voice shook slightly but held firm, and I admired her courage. “We made another batch. Very quickly.”
“Undercooked pork is dangerous!” Mrs. Maine called out from behind us, her voice dripping with condescension. Suddenly, all the judges spat out their mouthfuls, and one reprimanded Gabriella for giving them undercooked pork.
“Wait,” Gabriella interjected, her voice wavering as she struggled to maintain her composure. “The bacon was thin-sliced, and the meatisdone. It’s just not as crispy as I wanted it to be, ideally, but the fat rendered.”
“It sure was rendered; I saw it with my own eyes!” My words rang out just as loud and sure as Mrs. Maine’s had. I didn’t even know what “rendered fat” was, but I knew for a fact that Gabriella was honest and knew what she was talking about.
But despite my defense, the judges didn’t take another bite. With a somber tone, the announcer said, “All right, folks, let’s move on.”
