But here I was, standing at the back entrance of the Robin Creek Civic Center, holding my kitchen knives like a lifeline, about to enter the biggest cooking contest of my life so far. The civic center loomed over me, all steel and glass, making me feel smaller than I already did. I could see the banners inside with the names of past winners, their smiling faces reminding me how big a deal this was. People around me walked in confidently, like they were born for this moment. Was I really one of them?
I wiped my sweaty palms on my apron and checked my reflection in the glass door one more time. Part of me wondered what the hell I was doing here. The other part, though, whispered that I had a shot. It reminded me of the day I’d tried out for cheerleading. Ninth grade. Most of the girls had been cheering since pre-K, it seemed. They had gone to dance classes, gymnastics, weighttraining—all the things. I was only aDance Dance Revolutionchampion at my local arcade, but I had heart. And rhythm. And nerve. Did I make the cheer squad? No. But I came close enough for the head coach to tell me that I should try out for the basketball dance team. It was a step down, but I wasn’t daunted. I made that team and made the best of things.
My grandmother told me later that year, “Everything happens for a reason. You needed to work hard, gain the confidence. That’s why you didn’t make the main team… It was for you to grow.”
Well, as much as I wanted to be grateful for just being here at this cooking contest, I didn’t want to just grow. I wanted to freakin’ win this thing! No junior team for me.
Hair pulled back tight, no frizz. My apron didn’t have any mysterious spots—yet.Deep breath. I got this.
Still, a knot tightened in my stomach. It wasn’t the cooking that scared me. Even though every meal is the tiniest bit different, I could cook blindfolded if I had to. It wasthem. The judges. The other contestants. Mrs. Maine. Being in competition always made me feel like I was back in middle school, trying to prove myself.
And then there was Lorenzo. We were done. But I felt like I was carrying around his words in my head. He’d always told me I was a great cook—like that’s all I was.A cook. But never a business partner. Never someone with my own dreams, or depth. Was that it? Was this all I was—a cook to the world? Everybody’s servant? What was I doing here? I forced myself to push the thoughts away, even though they pulled at me fiercely. How could someone feel so conflicted in just sixty seconds? It was like my mind was playing tug-of-war with itself, and I wasn’t even sure which side I was rooting for.Can I even concentrate in this state of mind?I wished Joyce was here. Elijah, too.
I stepped through the door, and immediately, the energy inside hit me like a wall. Busy, buzzing, alive with clanking pots, chopping knives, and the low hum of nerves in the air. People were setting up their stations, arranging their ingredients like they were some kind of magic potions. I scanned the room, sizing up the competition. Some of them looked young like me, fresh-faced but determined. Others were older, seasoned chefs with that “I know what I’m doing” vibe.
And then there she was. Mrs. Maine. Standing near the front, flipping through a cookbook that was for sale. As soon as she spotted me, her lips twisted into a smirk.
Great.
I turned my back to her, trying not to let it get to me. Joyce’s words echoed in my mind from last night: “Kick her behind with your Blaxican boots!” I’d laughed, but now? I wasn’t so sure.
“Gabriella Santos, is it?” The voice startled me. I turned to see one of the contest coordinators smiling at me, clipboard in hand.
“That’s me,” I answered, trying to sound way more confident than I felt.
“Great. You’re at station five. Judges will start in thirty minutes. Good luck!” She gave me a nod and moved on to the next contestant.
Thirty minutes. I had thirty minutes to get everything ready. I made my way over to my station, setting down my knives and taking in the ingredients laid out in front of me. Black beans, sweet potatoes, peppers, spices…everything I needed for my Blaxican taquitos, which I had tweaked a little more even after Joyce had taken them to Eileen’s house. I also had my fusion street corn. This was it. This was what I’d been working on for months.
I spread out my ingredients and checked that everything wasin place. This was my battlefield, and I needed to get settled. But even as I started prepping, chopping the onions with quick, precise movements, my mind wouldn’t shut up.What if they think I’m not good enough?
I could practically feel Mrs. Maine’s eyes on my back, and it made me grit my teeth. The way she’d been going around asking about me at my old job, like I was on someone’s “Most Wanted” list.
I focused on the food. Chop, chop, slice. My hands knew what to do, even if my brain was going haywire. The sweet potatoes hit the pan with a satisfying sizzle, and I felt a tiny bit of calm settle over me. Cooking always did that—pulled me back to center. The way the ingredients came together, the smells that filled the air… It was like home, no matter where I was.
The tension in my shoulders eased a little as the spices started to bloom in the heat. The familiar, smoky aroma of cumin and the brightness of lime zest pushed out some of the nerves. The rhythm of it, the way the knife glided through the onions and peppers, felt like muscle memory taking over. It was instinct. No room for doubt.
But there was still that edge in my chest, the part of me that wouldn’t stop thinking. The part that kept whispering that maybe I didn’t belong here, that I was just playing at being a chef. What would the judges think? Would they recognize what I was trying to do or just see some mashup of cultures on a plate?
I stirred the pan, the sweet potatoes softening just the way I wanted them to. And that’s when the calm cracked again. What if these judges leaned toward traditional dishes? What if they couldn’t see the story behind the food?
I let the thoughts drift away as quickly as they had come,focusing on the smells filling the air. The flavors had begun to speak to each other. Everything was falling into place.
I glanced over at the other stations, some of them perfectly arranged, everything in neat little rows. And then there was me, with a flurry of ingredients scattered around like a whirlwind had passed through. It should have made me feel out of place. But in a weird way, it didn’t. I thrived in this mess, this organized chaos.
I took a deep breath, stirring the mixture and letting the tension seep out of me. The food was where I found my balance.
“Five minutes!” someone called from the front.
My heart kicked up a notch, but I didn’t let it show. I was almost done. Taquitos were assembled, the corn was grilled and seasoned. All that was left was the presentation. I plated everything carefully, making sure the colors popped, the edges were clean. Presentation mattered. They always said people eat with their eyes first.
I stepped back from the station, giving my dishes one last look. Okay, this was it. This was what I came for.
“Time’s up!”
The judges started making their rounds, and I wiped my hands on my apron again, trying to shake off the nerves. I caught Mrs. Maine giving me another look, this one dripping with condescension.
Whatever. I’m not here for her.
