Dahlia stared down at the shining, stainless steel countertop of the station.Herstation. She recalled the blank look on Strawberry Blond Hair’s face a few minutes ago, as she made a fool of herself within minutes of stepping onto set, and resisted the urge to lean down and smack her forehead against that stainless steel a few times.
Instead, she closed her eyes and breathed in through her nose, like that yoga class she went to once a year ago had taught her.
Onions.The scraggly brown bits on the top and bottom. The pure white of the insides, firm yet pliant. The reliable structure of layers. So many recipes started with the basic building block of a finely diced onion.
Dahlia was learning, in her new life, to take things one step at a time. If she started with basic building blocks, focused on each small step, she could accomplish things.
Dahlia’s eyes blinked open as a tall white man with dark hair ambled over to the workspace next to hers. He was looking down, furiously scribbling in a small notepad. Oh god. People were taking notes, and Dahlia felt like she’d barely heard half the words coming out of Janet’s mouth this morning. And Janet was loud.
“Hey,” the tall dude said, finally looking up. He stuck his pencil behind his ear, all cool like, and held out a hand. “Jacob. Looks like we’re tablemates.”
Dahlia shook his hand. She thought she maybe said her name. She was thrown by how confident he seemed, when all she could think about, aside from onions and that embarrassing scene under the archway, was how gassy she suddenly was. Her stomach was making alarming gurgling sounds. She glanced around the room. All the other contestants were making idle chatter, smiling at each other. They ranged from cocky and attractive, like Jacob, to a short older woman in the opposite corner, her salt-and-pepper bob shaking as she nodded vigorously at the Black woman next to her.
Wait. Dahlia recognized that bob. She had met that bob on the shuttle to the hotel from the airport two days ago. A grandma from Iowa, Dahlia remembered now. She was exactly what you would expect from a Midwestern grandma: kind, but sharp. Like you knew she made a mean apple pie, but also wouldn’t let you get away with any of your shit. Dahlia had loved her immediately. Barbara! That was her name.
A small spark burst to life in Dahlia’s veins.
If Barbara could do this, so could she.
But when Dahlia’s eyes glided away from Barbara, the faces of everyone else blurred at the edges.
She took another deep breath. Peppers. She liked chopping peppers too. Not as satisfying as an onion, but so aesthetically pleasing. Exquisite, vibrant colors, colors that were almost hard to imagine emerging from nothing but seeds, sunshine, dirt.
All you needed were building blocks.
“Hello, contestants of season eight!”
Dahlia swiveled back around.
Holy leapin’ lizards.
Sai Patel. Sai Patel was in front of her. Standing in the middle of the Golden Circle, where the contestants would be called at the end of each Elimination Challenge to greet their glory or their doom. Dahlia was suddenly disconcerted that her cooking station was so close to this circle, this space which would spike her anxiety and determine her future. It would, in fact, never escape her vision.
Everything was fine.
“I know how nervous you are right now.” Bless Sai Patel, and his mussed dark hair, and his shirt with the top button unbuttoned, for saying this out loud. “But remember—we chose you, out of thousands of possible contestants, for a reason. You’ve already gotten through the hardest part. You’re here! And now? This is when the fun starts.”
As Sai Patel grinned out at the thirteen contestants of season eight, Dahlia could see with her very own eyes that one slightly crooked canine she had observed so many times from the comfort of her couch back in Maryland. It was even more perfect in person, Sai Patel’s smile, and the fact that one of the most famous chefs in the world was standing in front of her, appearing genuine and encouraging and fully invested in this whole thing, began to soothe Dahlia’s nerves.
He was right, after all. She had made it through the auditions in Philly for a reason.Chef’s Specialwas for amateur chefs; thousands of people tried out each year. It meant something that she had been one of the thirteen out of all those thousands to make it here. She had worked hard. Her new tablemate Jacob and his dumb pencil behind his ear weren’t any better than her. She could do this.
She could win $100,000.
Janet swooped in as soon as Sai departed, her voice somehow sweet and commanding all at once.
“Here we go, folks! We’ve got a busy day ahead of us.”
Dahlia steeled her spine, forced her head to clear. She understood she had to listen to Janet now. About how they were going to leave the set and walk back on again, for real this time, with the cameras rolling. They were to hold their heads high, smile brightly, show they were ready to get this business started.
And Dahlia was not going to vomit. Or release gas. She was going to think about onions and peppers, or perhaps the calming, repetitive motion of chopping cucumbers, summer squash, carrots. Slice, slice, boom. Trusting the rhythm of your wrists.
What she ended up picturing, though, as she walked out on set again, was garlic, smashing them out of their papery shells with the flat blade of a knife. She felt it in her palms, the competent smack of her knife, the power of it. A fragrant, essential building block crushed beneath her fingertips.
Her mind focused, her tunnel vision fading away. Sai was in front of her again, now joined by the other judges, Tanner Tavish and Audra Carnegie. The table behind them was tall and imposing, the wall behind it made of polished hickory with a huge gold circle in the middle, a near reflection of the one on the floor.Chef’s Specialwas splashed across the circle at an angle in forest-green letters, off-center, a fast, carefully lazy script.
Dahlia felt the cameras watching her, and there were a few things she knew.
She knew it had been a foolish, rash thing, quitting her job for this.
