“I know, but it’s got a hint of Latinx flavors. We can do a marshmallow nougat, crush it up, and roll it into the chocolate spread.”
I waited to answer. I wasn’t going to gush over her shit—not when she was hogging all the recipes. “I’ll let you have this challenge,” I held a finger up in the air for effect, “If I get to pick how we do the shortbread houses.”
I could hear her jaw creaking from where I was standing.
“Kiskeya, I’m not going to go along with whatever you decide for every challenge. We’re a team. I got here just like you did because I can bake like a boss. You’re not the only one with skills.”
At least she looked embarrassed. “You’re right.” She shoved her hands into her hoodie pocket. “What are you thinking for the houses?”
I let out a breath, trying to relax, and smiled thinking of the ceramic casitas that my mom collected over the years on visits to the DR. She had them all displayed in a cabinet in our living room. “How about making some casitas?”
“That just means little houses.” Damn, she really was looking to set me off.
“Yo hablo español, Kiskeya. I meant the traditional houses, with the pastel colors and the white woodwork. They have them all over the Caribbean and Key West.”
She thought about it for a while and then nodded. “But that’s not festive.”
“I could pipe little string lights, maybe do a little church with the steeple and garland in front.” That seemed to hit home.
“That could work. And it’s tropical, but not like we’re trying to hit people over the head with the Dominican.”
Again with this. “We’re going to have to find a middle ground, Kiskeya.”
From one breath to the next, it was like she put a wall up. “We can do the pastel houses. That’s fine. Do you have any ideas for flavors? We need to start working on this.”
I sighed, throwing my hands up. I thought we’d gotten somewhere earlier, but we seemed to be back to square one. “Lemon and coconut. Valencia orange and clove? Maybe nutmeg?” She nodded with her back turned to me, as she started pulling things from the enormous pantry.
“Sounds good. Let’s get started.”
Oh, it was like that? Well, I wasn’t fucking ready, and I was about to take the Dominican to an eleven.
I went to my tote bag and pulled out the palo santo wrapped with white sage I’d brought with me, but decided not to use since Ms. Thing was so damn touchy. But I was all tied up in knots, and I needed some of this bad energy to get cleared out, or this bake was going to be a disaster.
I turned on one of the ranges and lit it. I moved around the kitchen as Kiskeya tried her best to ignore me, and just when I was about to come around a second time, she let out a full scream. “What the hell are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m saging the kitchen.”
Her eyes got bigger with every word. “Are you trying to fuck with me, Sully?”
“Kiskeya, everything I do is not a personal affront to you. I do this whenever I’m in a new kitchen. It’s just something that helps me get in a good headspace; this has nothing to do with you.”
She pushed herself off the counter she was leaning against and ran a frustrated hand into her hair, doing and undoing her ponytail like three times.
“This is not going to work if you keep pushing me like this.” She was tugging hard on her hair, and I could see that she was legitimately distressed.
“Kiskeya, what is really going on? This,” I said, holding up the barely burnt sage. “Can’t be what’s got you like that. I get you have complicated feelings and all, but I can’t be on pins and needles about everything.”
“I’m not doing heart to hearts. I’m sorry if I gave you the impression that I’m here to make friends. I’m here to win. You do your part, and I will do mine. And in five days, hopefully we each walk away with half the prize. That’s it.”
I gulped down the dumb tears that were trying to push up my throat and walked to the sink to put out the sage. It almost didn’t make sense. I could tell she’d been trying not to piss me off. But as soon as there was any chance we’d overdo it with the culture, all bets were off.
It was so far from my own experience. Growing up, my culture—knowing that no matter how much I was made to feel like the other outside, at home I had an identity no one could take away from me—had always been lifeline. For Kiskeya, it seemed to be the opposite. I was annoyed at her for being so stubborn, at myself for letting all this get to me...at whoever had made her feel this way. But for now, she was right. We were here to win this contest, and whatever was going on with Kiskeya was not anything I could fix. So, I tightened my apron and went to set up without looking at her again.
“Let’s get started, then.”
Chapter 8
Kiskeya
“Breathe, Kiskeya.” Sully’s voice was so low that I almost wondered if I’d said it to myself.
I let out a long breath and looked down at her. She was tired. I could see it in the set of her shoulders, but she’d been a machine today. She was a few inches shorter than my five-nine, but she was a powerhouse in the kitchen. Amateur or not, Sully was a skilled baker, and I was lucky to have her as a teammate.
The rugelach and Linzer cookies had come out well enough, but we hadn’t wowed the judges. The clear winners of that first round had been Kaori and Gustavo who’d gone all-in with Central American and Japanese flavors. Their black sesame rugelach and hibiscus and yuzu marmalade Linzer cookies had the judges literally swooning. I had to bite my tongue when Sully looked at me and said in an angry whisper, “I told you.” She didn’t need to say about what.
Now, we were waiting to be judged for the second challenge, and I was wrung out. I looked at the other teams standing in pairs at the end of their stations, waiting for the judges to come and look at the shortbread houses. I wondered if their hands were shaking as hard as mine were.
There was no way to anticipate the intensity of this day. Kitchens were always high-adrenaline spaces. The best ones run like loud, well-oiled machines where everyone and everything has a place to be and a job to do. But this day had been like nothing else I’d experienced. I felt out of my depth so many times, forgot how to do things I’d done a million times. And through all of it, Sully held it down, calmly getting me back on track. But there’d been no warmth. Not since last night.
“You ready?” Sully asked with urgency, as the judges approached Alex and Derek who were on the station before ours.
“I am. You?” A sharp nod was her only response.
I straightened my whites and looked at the beautiful casitas Sully had piped with such care. They were perfect little replicas of the houses my family had driven through whenever we left the city in the DR. Being with Sully these past few days had me thinking more about home than I had in years. Although the usual pang that came with those memories didn’t seem as strong. There was just too much to process when it came to Sully and the effect she had on me, but none of that could happen right now.
“What do we have here?” My back straightened as the three judges and Patricia approached us. They stood on the other side of our work station inspecting our display.
Sully side-eyed me, chin pointing at the judges, but I shook my head. She should be the one to explain what we’d done. It had all been her idea. Her face went from annoyance to confusion. Probably wondering why I wasn’t rushing to kiss up to the judges, but she recovered and soon was launching into an explanation.
“These are our key lime coconut casitas.” She looked up at me, as if waiting for my interjection, but I just nodded at what she’d said, and waited for her to continue. “We decided to do the décor as a nod to the conch-style houses found all over the Caribbean. The shortbread of the palm trees are orange, clove, nutmeg and cinnamon. We wanted to keep to island flavors.” She pointed at the pastel icing on the front of the little cookies houses and the detailed white piping that looked exactly like the intricate w
ood designs that usually were done on the real life ones.
“They’re so pretty, I almost don’t want to eat them.” That was Bobbie Halls, one of our female judges, who owned one of the most popular cookie shops in the country. Bobbie tapped on the steeple of the little church Sully had decorated. “This piping work is unbelievable; you even have a wreath on there. Well done,” she said with a smile, and Sully beamed.
Jean-Georges grumbled in response then plucked one of the palm trees and snapped it in two. He nodded approvingly at the sound. “Good snap.” He held up a finger immediately, a deep frown on his face. “But the flavor is the most important.”
I held my breath as they each took a bite. Susan Park, our third judge, was the first to speak. “This is amazing. The lime and coconut are there, but the buttery nuttiness of the shortbread just melts in your mouth.” That was high praise from a former White House pastry chef.
Jean-Georges never gave anything away, but when he went for a second bite, I almost sagged with relief. “Very good choice of flavors and the decoration is effective.”
I spoke up then. “Sully did all the piping.”
My baking partner widened her eyes at my interjection, and I could see a little bit of red blooming on her cheeks. But instead of preening or saying something about herself, she looked straight at Jean-Georges and said, “Kiskeya did the pastry.” My heart threw itself against my chest at her words.
“Well done, ladies,” Bobbie said, as they went back to their chairs at the front of the studio.
I wanted to thank Sully for speaking up for me with Jean-Georges, but she just walked past me, gesturing toward the front. “Third challenge is about to start.”
Within seconds, we were standing in front of the judge, ready for our last bake of the day. All the teams buzzing with nervous energy, despite the long day we’d already had.
Patricia stood by the judges as she gave us our instructions. “For the Showoff Showcase, we want you to make tree ornaments.”
The appropriate oohing and aahing for the cameras followed more details. “We want four different flavored cookies that resemble traditional Christmas ornaments.” She pointed at a table, which had appeared in the last few minutes. “This table has a bunch you can use for inspiration. We want a half dozen of each kind of cookie. You have three hours.”
Sully rushed over to the table, and I followed her, trying hard not to look at the bounce in her ass as she ran. She immediately started grabbing stuff from the table. “Here,” she said, shoving a glass snowflake in my hand.
“I like that one,” I said, pointing at what looked like a little gift box with a big bow. “We can make petit fours for those. Maybe some curled candied orange for the bow.”
Her eyes widened and went for it. “Good idea.” She also grabbed a hand-painted red ball. “Some kind of rum ball or Russian tea cookie?”
More nodding from me, and on a whim, I grabbed what looked like a sprig of mistletoe with a red bow. She widened her eyes at my impulse grab, but didn’t say a word. That was probably for the best.
We got back to our stations, and immediately Sully had a pen and paper out. “Okay, petit fours for our gift box. What are you thinking for flavors?”
“Hot Toddy?” I suggested, and she nodded right away. Suddenly, I felt like my chest could take in air again.
“I like it, lemon sponge and maybe something spicy?” She was tapping the pen against her lips, and even in this moment of intensity—when there was no time for anything but focus—a surge of lust almost leveled me.
I looked at my reddened hands which had been burned more than once today, trying to get my head back in the game. “Four spice cake? Cinnamon, clove, nutmeg, star anise.”
“Yes. I like it. How about doing the traditional Russian tea cake but blend in some turron?” The Spanish almond nougat would be a nice texture with the crumbly cookie, and it was a holiday classic. I almost smiled then, because despite our many run-ins, we worked well together.
“Okay brace yourself, for the snowflake, let’s do a pizzele, but with a brittle on top. Cocada?” I almost said no to the Dominican coconut brittle, but I dipped my head in assent instead.
“That’s fine. Ginger snaps for the mistletoe?
She crossed her arms like she was about to say something she knew would piss me off. “I’ve done this before, and it came out really good. A ginger snap and blend dried mango with chili into the batter.” I thought about it, and I could see it working. The chewy texture would probably mix well with the crunchy cookie, and she’d done it before. It wasn’t what I would’ve gone for, but as I had been reminded multiple times in the last two days, this wasn’t the Kiskeya Show.
“Sounds good.”
“You want to fight me on this so bad right now,” she teased, aware of the fact that the cameras were always rolling.
“I do not,” I protested, as I started to work. “Petit fours, Russian tea cakes, ginger snaps and pizzeles. I’ll start on the first two, and you work on the others. We should have all these done in ninety minutes and then we can decorate. Equipo Sullkis al ataque.” I said that last part as I lifted a flour-dusted fist up to her.
“You’re not cute.” Despite the grumbling, she tapped her fist to mine, and there was a tiny smile lifting up her lips. “Maybe your moody ass can finally embrace teamwork.”
“I promise to try.”
And I really would. Sully had shown me today she could put her feelings aside and do the work to win this thing. I had to step up and do the same. We had a shot at making it to day two, and I would do my part to get us there.
Chapter 9
Sully
“I can’t believe you guys are not going to be in the kitchen anymore,” I lamented into Alex’s shoulder, tightening my arms around him.
He pulled back smiling sadly and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “We’ll still be here all week. They were really awesome about letting us stick around if we wanted.” He glanced up at Derek who was stoically standing by the door waiting for his teammate. “And we both have the time. We might as well...”
Alex’s smile and the flush on Derek’s face made it pretty easy to guess what they were going to be doing. My new friend gave me one last squeeze and moved to stand next to the massive blond who immediately draped an arm around him.
“Well, I’m glad someone gets to relax in this place for the rest of the week,” I complained, and glared at Kiskeya who had said her goodbyes and had gone back to taking notes. About what, I did not know. We wouldn’t even know what the second day challenges were until the morning.
“We’re heading to bed. We’re super tired.” Alex sounded way too wired for any sleep to be happening in that room, but I let them get away with the lie and wished them a good night.
By the time I closed the door behind them, Kiskeya had quietly slipped into the bathroom to take a shower. It had been a long-ass day, but I was still buzzing with nervous energy. I grabbed the bag of mango with chili I’d nabbed from the kitchen studio and got in bed.
I grinned when I saw all the texts from my mom and brother. I’d sent them a voice message after we finished, letting them know we’d moved on to day two, and warning them with pain of death against telling anyone or putting it on Facebook, since this wouldn’t air until a couple of days before Christmas.
I shivered as I got under the covers, and then remembered I was in a fancy castle with a fireplace I could turn on with a remote. As soon as I got the fire going, my phone buzzed with a video call from my mom.
I accepted the call right away and grinned into the screen. “Mami. How long have you even been home?”
My mother had gone through a tough couple of years. After taking a bad fall at work that had shattered her shoulder, it took almost eighteen months and multiple surgeries for her to get back to normal. She’d been an engineer for one of the utility companies. One of the few women of color in her union. That job had meant the world to her, so losing her independence and ultimately her abil
ity to do what she loved had taken a toll on her. She’d only been back to work for a few months and was still adjusting to being stuck indoors instead of out with her crew like she’d done for almost fifteen years. We were all still getting used to our lives being back to our new normal.
Her hair was short, almost a buzz cut, but it suited her—my mother was all cheekbones. She was slim and tall, like Kiskeya. Because everything came back to Kiskeya today.
“Mija dime! Tell me how your day went. I’m so proud of you.”
I shook my head at the phone. “Mami, you’d tell me the same exact thing if I’d lost.”
She gave me one of her “don’t sass me” clicks of her tongue. “I’m always proud of you. And I’m extra proud that you made it through. Not that I’m surprised; you’re so talented and with another Dominicana,” She widened her eyes like two Dominican women in Scotland at the same time was a major historic occurrence. “I mean, you’re going to bring all the flavor.”
If only my partner didn’t seem opposed to every single idea I had. I turned to check Kiskeya’s status in the bathroom, but it sounded like she was still busy in there. “She’s been weird about using a lot of tropical flavors.” I lifted a hand, remembering some of her confessions from the first day. “She does have her reasons, but today our most successful challenges were the ones where we actually collaborated. I hope she’s more open to my ideas tomorrow, or we’re going to butt heads.”
My mother looked like she was ready to get on a plane and come give Kiskeya a talking to. “Ay no, and with that name. You’d think her family was all about the culture.” I cringed, hoping the bathroom door was thick.
“She hasn’t said much about her family.” I didn’t want to betray Kiskeya’s confidence by sharing some of what she’d told me. “They’re all still in the DR. She came on her own.” I felt guilty even saying this. She seemed like such a private person, and I had a feeling she’d be mortified to hear me talking about her with my mom. So I changed the subject. “But we did these awesome shortbread casitas, Mami. You’ll love them when you see the show.”
Mangos and Mistletoe Page 6
