When the Grits Hit the Fan

by Maddie Day

  Now Adele stepped up to the portable PA system they’d set up, not that this forthright senior citizen really needed amplification. She tapped the mike. “We’re about ready to start. Can you shut your sweet pieholes already?” She smiled to soften the message and nobody seemed to take it the wrong way. The buzzing conversation soon grew still. You didn’t mess with Aunt Adele.

  “Thank you,” she continued. “As you know, this is the kickoff culinary competition for the Festival. We’re delighted to get such a great array of entries. Our cooks are there.” She pointed to our line at the side of the table. “But they’re not necessarily in the same order as their entries.” The crowd clapped, and someone called out, “Let’s hear it for links!” A supporter of the sausage maker, no doubt.

  “Let me introduce our esteemed judges and they can get a-tastin’.” Adele turned to the four standing behind her.

  “First, we have South Lick’s own top chef, Christina James.”

  My friend Christina, her long blond hair wore down for once, smiled and waved to the crowd.

  “Next, our esteemed farmer-scientist, Dr. Sajit Rao.”

  Sajit held up a hand in acknowledgment, but kept a serious expression on his face. After Turner and I had finished the cleanup earlier, he’d asked if I needed him to stay, and I’d said I didn’t, so he wasn’t here to see his father judge. I kind of hoped the younger man had gone home to help with whatever needed doing for their demonstration tomorrow.

  “From the Nashville Inn, up-and-coming chef Nick Fernandes,” Adele announced.

  A dark-eyed man looking somewhere near my own age of twenty-seven nodded, his hands clasped in front of his white chef tunic. He’d taken over Christina’s spot at the inn when she was hired at Hoosier Hollow, the new gourmet restaurant down the street last winter.

  “Finally, visiting from Boston, we have world-renowned scientist Professor Warren Connolly.”

  When the applause died down, Adele added, “I guess you might know a small little thing or two about maple up there in New England, Professor, am I right?”

  “We most certainly do.” He patted his stomach with both hands and rocked back on his heels, beaming, looking for all the world like the stereotype of a well-off businessman. His cheeks were flushed, though.

  I’d be willing to bet Professor Connolly had studied a liquid lunch at the Casino in the hours since breakfast. Didn’t he have conference sessions to attend? Oh, well. Not my circus, not my monkey. When a man climbed onto a chair way at the back of the crowd, my cheeks warmed. It was my hunky electrician, Abe O’Neill. He waved and blew me a kiss, then gestured with two thumbs up.

  Adele handed each judge a pen, a small clipboard holding a score sheet, and a water bottle for clearing their palates between tastes. She instructed them on the procedure and the judging categories.

  “Professor Connolly, you’ll go first,” Adele said.

  “Oh, no. Ladies first. I insist.”

  Christina caught my eye and lifted one eyebrow as if to say, “Where’d they get this throwback?” but she proceeded to the first plate. I watched as the line of judges moved down the line of plates. They tasted, scribbled, tasted some more, marked the final grade, sipped water, and moved to the next entry. Somebody gave a piercing two-fingered whistle when Christina tasted the muffins, and my neighbor in the entrants’ lineup folded her hands so tight when Christina came to the maple bars I was pretty sure they were hers.

  I tried not to look too closely when the judges sampled my biscuits, but Christina managed to slip me a wink. She knew quality when she tasted it. The dark donuts next to my entry seemed to act to my advantage. To a one the judges grimaced after tasting them.

  Warren Connolly, bringing up the rear, popped an entire biscuit half into his mouth as soon as he got to #8. No subtle rolling on the tongue for him. He coughed but it was a strangled sound, like he was choking on the bite. I watched as his eyes bugged out. His face turned even redder. He grabbed at his throat with both hands. Nick, just ahead of Connolly in line, turned and stared, eyes wide, but he didn’t move to help. Was he paralyzed? Why didn’t he whack Connolly on the back? This was terrible. Choking was no joke. Too many people stood between us for me to try to reach the professor. The entire crowd seemed rooted to the floor. The professor’s water bottle thunked onto the floor.

  “Help him!” I cried.