The first judge approached my station, a tall guy with salt-and-pepper hair and an air of importance. He studied my dishes for a moment, then glanced at me. “Tell me about these,” he said, his voice neutral.
I swallowed, forcing myself to speak clearly. “These are Blaxican taquitos—black beans, sweet potatoes, and spices,wrapped in a tortilla and fried. It’s a fusion of Black soul food and Mexican flavors. And this”—I pointed to the second dish—“is street corn, grilled and topped with a blend of cotija cheese, hot sauce, and lime.”
The judge nodded, picking up a fork. He took a bite of the taquitos first, chewing slowly, his face giving away nothing. I held my breath. Then he moved on to the corn, taking a small, deliberate bite. More chewing, more poker face.
I was about to lose it when he finally looked up, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Interesting combination. I like the blend of flavors. It’s different.”
Different. That could go either way, right?
He nodded once, then moved on to the next station, leaving me standing there, my heart pounding out of my chest. I exhaled slowly, watching as the rest of the judges made their way through the room, tasting dish after dish. It felt like hours before they were finally done, but in reality, it was probably less than fifteen minutes.
The judges retreated to the far side of the room, huddled in quiet discussion. The room vibrated with restless excitement. The other contestants began whispering among themselves, shifting from foot to foot. My pulse refused to settle as I tried not to glance at the clock. Minutes dragged on like hours, until one of the judges cleared his throat and called us to the front.
We contestants all gathered at the front, the air thick with anticipation. I spotted Mrs. Maine a few feet away, her arms crossed, looking smug. Like she already knew she’d won. Well, I wasn’t so sure.
The head judge, a woman with sharp features and a no-nonsense attitude, stepped up to the mic. “Thank you all for participatingin today’s competition,” she began, her voice echoing through the room. “We’ve tasted some incredible dishes, and the decision was not easy.”
I could feel my heart in my throat.Come on, come on, just say it.
“And the winner of the Robin Creek Citywide Cooking Contest is…”
Chapter 28
Joyce
It was dark by the time Gabriella returned. The door burst open, and she stood there, breathless and wide-eyed. “Joyce!” she shouted, practically vibrating with excitement. “I won!”
Before I could respond, she rushed toward me, enveloping me in the tightest hug I think she’d ever given me. “I won! And…and there’s more! I got a cash prize and a meeting with one of the biggest restaurant owners in Houston!”
I laughed, pulling back just enough to look at her face, tears brimming in both of our eyes. “You did it! I knew you would!”
Gabriella’s eyes were shining as she clutched my hands. “I couldn’t have done this without you, Joyce. You’ve been there every step of the way. You, this house, the ideas in the Green Book to make foods that travel well. I swear, God brought us together!”
We hugged again, both crying and laughing at the same time, feeling the joy of her success ripple through the room.
“I’m so proud of you, Gabriella,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. “This is just the beginning for you.”
And as we stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, I couldn’t help but think about how far we’d both come—together. Gabriellaand I finally pulled apart from our hug. The excitement still buzzed in the air, but now it was a silent kind of joy, one that didn’t need words. I watched as she wiped the tears from her eyes, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.
“I still can’t believe it,” she whispered, more to herself than to me.
“You better believe it,” I said, nudging her gently toward the kitchen. “Come on, let’s sit down for a minute. I want to hear everything.”
Gabriella laughed, the sound full of relief and pride, and followed me to the table. She was practically bouncing in her chair as she recounted the details—the intensity of the competition, how she stayed calm under pressure, and that final, glorious moment when they called her name.
“And Mrs. Maine?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh, she performed this tiny little fake clap, like the people on the Miss America stage who didn’t win the crown,” Gabriella said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. She imitated the fake clap with exaggerated, dainty movements, her lips pressed together in a tight, forced smile. “She gave me that look—you know the one, like she couldn’t believe I beat her.”
I chuckled, shaking my head. “What I wouldn’t give to see it! I told you, you were going to beat her one day.”
She nodded, her face softening. “You were right. And it felt good. But not in the way I thought it would. It wasn’t about proving her wrong, because, really, I think she’s just a mean girl who never grew up. Did you see that movieMean Girls?”
“I did.”
“Good. I thought I was gonna have to explain it to you,” she said with a fake wipe of her brow.
I elbowed her softly in return.
