by penny watson
“Okay. You girls are killing me.”
Cady and Emilia’s faces broke out into enormous grins. Shit-eating grins.
“Don’t get cocky. I’ll probably only last forty-five minutes.”
“Bull. And shit. You’re gonna win the whole damned thing.” Cady hugged her mother.
“We’ll help you pack.” Emilia said.
“Damn you, girls. This is insane.”
Maybe she needed insane.
Chapter Three
The competitors were sizing each other up. Seated at a long wooden table, Sophia scratched in the answers on her paperwork. Women and men, young and old, with callused hands and tattooed forearms and crazy eyes surrounded the table sneaking looks at everyone else. Looks filled with insecurity. Over-confidence. Forced indifference. Even youthful foolishness. Good God, some of these people didn’t look old enough to drive!
She completed the confidentiality agreement and handed it to an intern who was cavity-inducing perky.
“Thank you, Mrs . . . Brown.” The girl nodded. “Please put on your apron and join the contestants in Room Fourteen. Right down the hall. Here’s your entrance ticket.”
Sophia slid the faded King Arthur Bakery apron over her T-shirt and calico sarong skirt. She’d decided comfortable was more important than looking stylish for the camera. The girls had laughed at her this morning.
“You’re trying to undermine your chances,” Em said with startling insight.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she answered.
Cady giggled. “Em’s right. You think by wearing your old clothes, they’ll overlook you. Not happening. No matter what you wear, you still look stunning.”
Sophia shrugged. “You mean old. I still look old.” She twisted long dark hair into a bun and secured it with a comb.
Emilia slid a slender arm around Sophia’s waist. “You look elegant. You look mysterious. You look intelligent. Every wrinkle, every line, every freckle is beautiful.”
Sophia swallowed painfully and glanced away.
“Don’t ding your own chances, Mom. Give it a go.”
And so here she was, against her better judgment, standing in front of Room Fourteen. She pushed open the door and became instantly aware of hostility and tension.
“Nowhere on that announcement did it say amateurs and professionals working together! No. Where.” A giant thundered his words in a thick Scottish accent. “I traveled halfway across the globe for a chance to compete in a professional contest. Not with a bunch of no-name amateurs. You insult every one of us who has struggled in culinary school and crawled our way to the top in this industry.”
A crew of interns and producers surrounded the man, attempting to placate his temper.
“Mr. Adamson, I assure you this concept will be a huge hit for the network—”
“I don’t care about your bloody network. I care about the quality of the competition.”
A small man with sweat on his forehead tapped his clipboard. “We kept the details of this competition a secret on purpose. We didn’t want anyone else to jump on this ship before we launched our show.”
“Your ship is going to sink.” The Scottish giant glared at the crew.
The little man shook his head. “I don’t think so. This is totally new and innovative, and I think it’s going to work like a charm. If you don’t think you can hack it—”
The giant leaned down until his gaze was eye-level with the producer. “Can I hack it? That’s not the question, is it? The question is what will happen when a wee amateur tries to keep up with me?”
Eyes blazing, the Scot surveyed the room. His gaze landed on Sophia. He sneered. “Just look at her. Like a scared puppy. There is no way these play-at-home mummies can keep up with the big boys.”
Sophia lifted one eyebrow. That’s all. She kept her face relaxed, neutral, void of emotion.
This cool, calm response to melodrama had driven David crazy. She stepped forward and handed the producer her ticket and paperwork.
He scanned the application and smiled at her. “Mrs. Brown, good to meet you. I’m Harold Smith.” He held out a soft manicured hand and shook with enthusiasm. “You’re the local gal, I remember. With the impressive garden.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Smith.”
“Your name came up quite a bit when we spoke with local nurseries and farm stands. They said you’ve been instrumental in helping introduce new winter-hardy varieties of herbs in the area.”
“Yes, well—”
“Excuse me, sir,” The giant grated, his burr pronounced and trailing. “If you’re quite done flirting with the pretty gardener, we have more pressing matters to discuss.”
Mr. Smith looked perturbed. But Sophia could tell the giant would make good television. He was larger than life. He was loud. He was angry. With a thick red beard, shiny bald head, and an attitude enormous enough to bully all the other contestants. He had a presence that was both off-putting and charismatic at the same time.
He took a step, just one step to the right, and blocked her view of Mr. Smith.
One step.
And suddenly she wanted to win.
She wanted to beat the giant. She wanted to beat everyone.
She wanted to sneak into the game like a quiet little mouse and crush them all.
She was tired of being overlooked. She was tired of being someone’s wife. Good little wife, with the sweet little garden and charming parties and so self-sacrificing.
No one would see her coming. She looked non-threatening. She looked like a doll. That’s what David used to say. Like a china doll with big dark eyes and porcelain skin, dotted with freckles like cinnamon on a bun.
Sophia angled her shoulder and slid past the giant. She felt the heat of his body as she brushed past him. “Mr. Smith? Where would you like me to go?” She completely ignored the giant. As though he didn’t exist. As though he were of no consequence.
Mr. Smith’s face lit up when he saw her. “Of course! Let me show you.” He turned back to the giant. “We’ll finish this conversation later.” And just like that, the giant was dismissed.
She made the mistake of glancing up at the Scot’s face as they left the group. Eyes as blue as indigo caught her gaze. With a promise of retribution.
A single expression popped into her head. One of Cady’s favorites.
Bring it.
❦
“Welcome to A Taste of Heaven! This is so exciting!” Mr. Smith surveyed the contestants with undisguised glee in his eyes.
Sophia wondered why he was so enthusiastic. She had a sinking feeling it had something to do with the giant’s concerns.
“As you all know, the Creativity Channel is hosting this competition, which will be aired next year. The Vermont Culinary Institute was gracious enough to offer their lovely facility for our taping. That means we get to film in this gorgeous landscape and reap the benefits of fresh produce, dairy, and other local products for the show. We are thrilled!” Mr. Smith wiped the sweat from his brow with a white linen handkerchief. “We put out a casting call for professional chefs from all over the world. We have chefs from the UK, Europe, Asia, Canada, and the United States. Young and old, some fresh out of culinary school, some with years of experience. So exciting!”
Sophia wondered how many times Mr. Smith would say exciting.
“We also put out a casting call for amateur cooks. Regular folks who enjoy cooking for their families, have a bit of natural talent, but no formal training.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Now for the surprise!”
Here we go.
“We lied to all of you.” He winked for the camera. “This is not a professional contest. This is not an amateur contest. A Taste of Heaven will be pairing one professional chef with one amateur for the duration of the competition. The two contestants must produce a perfectly complementary dish for the judges, and each of them must prepare some part of the meal completely on their own. How quickly can a partnership be formed? Is it possible for two s
trangers to become a cohesive creative team in just one week? We’re not looking for the amateur to be merely a sous-chef or assistant for the professional. We are looking for a true blending of ideas and culinary vision, a genuine partnership. This is the premise for A Taste of Heaven. Isn’t that delicious?”
“Was that a rhetorical question?” The booming voice, thick with sarcasm, came from the giant himself.
“Ha! I’m sure you can rise to the challenge, Mr. Adamson. We are starting with sixteen contestants. After each challenge, one or more pairs will be eliminated from the competition. The final winners will receive fifty thousand dollars.”
Sophia glanced at the pack of chefs. It was obvious that some of them were pros. They looked insulted, angry, and pompous. Others were slovenly and slouched. Some appeared eager, some curious, some like they were ready to sharpen the knives in front of them and behind their backs. She scanned the group and wondered if she could work with any of these people. Time would tell.
“I hope you’re all ready to cook, because our first challenge is about to begin. Follow me, please.” Mr. Smith led them down a hallway and banged open a set of double doors with a dramatic flourish.
The contestants gasped. It was a dream kitchen, gleaming with stainless steel and top-of-the-line appliances. The set married old-fashioned Vermont craftsmanship—birch stools, exposed beams, and a dark hardwood floor—with modern technology. Shelves were fully stocked with blenders and grinders and pressure cookers. Copper pots dangled above their heads, strung up with brass chains. Sophia thought of her mismatched teacups at home, the scuffed mortar-and-pestle, her favorite dented soup pot she’d received as a wedding gift twenty-three years ago. She sighed. This kitchen was nothing short of spectacular.
Next to her she heard a long, low whistle. “Jesus Christ.” The Scot turned to her and shook his head. “You bloody Americans don’t know the meaning of simplicity. Everything has to be over-the-top. Brand new and shi-nee.”
He drew out the last word with such contempt, Sophia couldn’t resist responding.
She adopted her well-respected Scottish accent and leaned close to him. “We like . . . shi-nee.”
He raised one eyebrow at her comment and his nostrils flared.
“How do you like your new kitchen? Isn’t it gorgeous? The Creativity Channel and the sponsors for A Taste of Heaven have generously donated this new facility to the Vermont Culinary Institute.” Mr. Smith’s white teeth flashed under the lights. “But something’s missing, right?”
A petite French woman yelled out, “Oui. Where is the food?”
“Where indeed?” Smith answered. “Let’s go check the courtyard, shall we?” His oxford shoes clicked on the floor as he approached the back of the room. A dark curtain hung across the entire wall. He turned to the cameras and smiled. “I present . . . the courtyard!” The curtain slid away to reveal a wall of glass. Several production workers slid the transparent panels along the tracks until the entire room opened up onto a massive outdoor kitchen.
The contestants filed outside, stunned by the extravagance. It doubled the size of their workspace. Stovetops and grills were set into brick counters. Refrigerators were tucked safely under a canvas canopy. And best of all—most thrilling of all—was a lush, vibrant perennial border that surrounded the entire kitchen, filled with edible plants, herbs, and flowers. Bright orange nasturtiums nodded in the afternoon sunshine, tender peas twined about a chicken wire fence. Bees hovered over patches of fuzzy thyme. Sophia laughed out loud. This was utterly delightful.
“Your dream-come-true, Miss Garden Fairy?” The Scot’s thick arms crossed his chest. He looked utterly disinterested.
“There are fully-stocked pantries inside, as well. But the outdoor facility takes advantage of our beautiful Vermont landscape. Edibles in the garden.” Mr. Smith pointed to glass-fronted coolers. “Local cheeses and other dairy products.” He sauntered over to the canopied area and the cameras followed him. Baskets of fresh produce lined the tables. “We have locally farmed proteins, fruits, and vegetables. Honey. Maple syrup. Anything and everything you can imagine.” He took a perfectly ripe strawberry from one of the boxes and popped it into his mouth. “This competition is not just about using your technical skill and your culinary education. This competition is about using natural products that are available right now. Seasonal, fresh, inspirational. We look forward to an exciting week, where a range of backgrounds and expertise will showcase these wonderful Vermont offerings.”
Mr. Smith approached the contestants and nodded in solidarity. As though they were all on the same team. All working together.
At least for the camera.
“Time to jump right in!” For a moment, his face took on a manic glow. “Our first challenge will be the only challenge you do on your own. Each of you is responsible for an amuse-bouche. For our viewers at home who are not familiar with this term, I’ll elaborate. Amuse-bouche is French for ‘mouth amuser.’ It’s just one bite to whet the appetite, to showcase a cook’s culinary vision and approach. Our judges—who will be introduced shortly—will rank their favorites, from best to last. And this will determine the teams. The winners will get to do a blind tasting and choose the chef they believe will pair the best with their own style of cooking. You get to be the judges today as well. Unfortunately, we will also be saying good-bye to the lowest ranked pair. The bottom two—the pro and amateur with the lowest scores—will be eliminated today, leaving us with fourteen pairs for the duration of the contest. The lucky seven.”
The cameras panned in closer to Mr. Smith’s face. His bowtie was just a smidge crooked. Sophia wondered if the editors would fix that later.
“Just. One. Bite. What will you make? It should showcase your talent, your technical skill, your point of view as a chef. It should also showcase the bounty of Vermont.” The camera swung back to the contestants—jittery, tense, practically bouncing on the balls of their feet.
“Are you ready? You have one hour to prepare the best bite of your life.”
In a moment of spontaneous and unscripted release, the contestants shouted, “Yes!”
Sophia nodded.
The Scot grumbled something under his breath.
Mr. Smith pulled a little flag from a basket on one of the tables. It was white, with the outline of a puffy cloud in sky-blue. The logo A TASTE OF HEAVEN was artfully inscribed inside the cloud. He raised the flag above his head. Sophia saw his Adam’s apple bob up and down, one time. And then the producer yelled, “Go!”
The chefs sprang to action.
Except Sophia.
And the Scot.
Sophia was frozen. She heard the songbirds chirping and felt the warm sunshine on her face. It was one of those stunning Vermont days, when the sky was so blue and far away, it offered both comfort and bittersweet beauty. She watched the other contestants greedily snatch up grass-fed beef and dirt-clumped vegetables and organic chickens strung up by strands of coarse string.
One perfect bite.
She knew what she should do. The judges wanted a complex sauce. An extraordinary protein, expertly prepared. An array of textures.
One perfect bite.
Tart. And sweet. Like her life.
She smiled to herself. No one, absolutely no one, ever made a dessert for the amuse-bouche. Dessert was the kiss of death in a cooking competition. Dessert was the red-headed stepchild. Dessert was never the star of the show. Just the end of the show. And usually a hideous disappointment.
The Scot turned to her and bellowed. She’d forgotten he was still there. He rushed toward the kitchen.
May the best man win.
Chapter Four
Chop.
Crush.
Strain.
Grate.
Squeeze.
Bubble and stir, bubble and stir.
Whip, mix.
Press. Gentle, gentle. Watch for cracks.
Drizzle.
Wander in the garden. Tamp down hysterical laughter.
Time ticking, distant voices.
Taste . . . nothing. Still nothing. Pray.
Assemble, paint, and balance.
Lift your head as the last ten seconds tick by.
A sea of eager faces.
And once again, the blue of a Vermont sky, pulling you back to earth.
❦
Mingled with the scents of garlic and onion and the pungent tang of herbs was the smell of sweat—the anxiety of the contestants as three judges faced them in the kitchen.
The dishes were lined up on a long table, free of labels. This was a blind judging, after all. Sixteen little plates. Could you pour your heart and soul into one bite? Define who you are, who you were, who you wish to be?
She had no business being here, not without a sense of taste. How could she possibly compete? Damn Cady and Em. This was all their fault. Two contestants were going home today. If she made it back home by seven o’clock, she could stop by the liquor store and get a bottle of Cab.
Tonight would be a food-free dinner. Just Cabernet in her yellow Depression glass goblet. Listening to crickets and frogs in her garden. She sighed. That scenario didn’t sound as appealing as it once had.
A quiet Chinese woman to Sophia’s left made an odd choking noise. Sophia glanced at her and saw sweat on her forehead and a tremble in her hands. Sophia had the strangest impulse to touch those shaking hands and whisper it would be all right. The realization that this type of event was not as it seemed on television was beginning to creep into her consciousness.
“Time to meet our judges!” Mr. Smith’s voice boomed in the kitchen. “In keeping with our amateur-professional concept for A Taste of Heaven, we have decided to include both professional culinary experts as well as an enthusiastic amateur in our judging panel.”
This announcement was met with a giggle from one of the judges. Sophia heard the Scot whisper “Jesus H. Christ” under his breath. He rolled the “r” for a good five seconds, and Sophia smiled to herself.
“First we have Mr. Jonathan Rutgers, owner and head chef at Pioneer, master of American cuisine, James Beard Award-winner, CIA-educated. Rutgers is fascinated by the melting pot that makes up American culture, and his cuisine reflects that.”
