Stir It Up (5 page)

Finally, it’s time to spoon the dough onto cookie sheets that I’ve already prepared. After I put them in the oven, Linc plops down at the kitchen table while I clean up the mixing bowls and measuring spoons.

“Are you sure you can edit all those pieces into a real video?” I say.

“Yes, Anj, don’t worry. I’ll finish it up over the weekend and bring a disc to school on Monday. Then we’ll mail it at lunchtime, okay?”

“Yeah, cool,” I say anxiously. “Thanks, Linc, I really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” he says, smiling. “Let’s finish up.”

“Okay, we just have to wait for the timer to go off,” I tell Linc.

Once the digital display on the stove reaches ten, Linc focuses the camera on it while it counts down the seconds to zero. He motions over to me to take out the cookies. I place them on the counter to cool.

“You’ll want to let the cookies cool for about five minutes before you take them off the cookie sheet,” I say to the camera.

“Almost there, Anj,” says Linc, turning off the camera and reaching for a cookie. He pulls back his hand, shaking and blowing on his fingers.

“Didn’t I just say cooling takes five minutes?”

“That’s for the folks in TV land,” Linc says. “Not the producer!” Reaching forward again, he grabs a cookie and tosses it from hand to hand to cool it off before popping the whole thing in his mouth.

After five minutes, I use a spatula to carefully take the cookies off the cookie sheet and place them on one of my mother’s special china plates that I’ve taken from the dining room cabinet. I put it down on the table between me and Linc and pour two tall
glasses of sorrel, a hibiscus drink that Deema makes every week.

“Ready when you are,” I tell Linc.

Linc stands and switches on the camera.

“Okay, action!” he mumbles around a mouthful of cookie.

“Here are the finished cookies, hot from the oven,” I say to the camera. I pick one up from the plate and break it in half. The gooey molten chocolate oozes out over my fingers. “You can see the pieces of melted chocolate and coconut inside.” I take a bite and swallow. “Delicious! Especially with a tall, cool glass of sorrel.” I pick up the glass and take a sip. “But for that recipe, you’ll have to tune in next time! Thanks for watching!” I continue to smile brightly at the camera, trying not to blink, until Linc says, “Cut!”

I let out a deep breath and slump in my chair. “Wow, that was a lot harder than I thought!”

“Yep, but it will be great!” Linc puts the camera away in his backpack, then hoists the pack onto his shoulder. He heads for the stairs.

“One sec — you take the cookies home,” I say, rushing to grab a plastic bag.

“Hey! Cool! Thanks!”

“Least I could do.”

I finish cleaning up. They’ll be expecting me down at the restaurant pretty soon.

Weeks pass with no letter from the Food Network.

Thanksgiving comes and goes. On the day before Christmas vacation, there’s still no letter from the Food Network.

Will they
ever
call me? I felt so sure the video was good — and Linc felt even surer. But now, all I can picture is the people at the Food Network looking at my video and laughing.

I slide into the cafeteria seat next to Linc and reach into my knapsack for my lunch: leftovers from last night’s pilau, a rice and bean dish with chicken and pieces of pumpkin.

“Any word?” Linc says.

“Not yet,” I answer, unwrapping the plastic fork and knife from the paper napkin and beginning to eat. The chicken is so tender it’s practically in shreds. The rice is fluffy but not sticky. The whole thing is
good and spicy. I have to drink a lot of water while I eat it. But it’s comfort food. Real good.

“Oh, well,” I say. I’m trying to be cool, show that it doesn’t bother me. “We tried. I guess it wasn’t good enough.”

Linc puts down his sandwich. “You’re not fooling me, Anj,” he says. “Just hang tight — you never know.”

That night and the next day are busy ones at the roti shop, and we close late on Christmas Eve. It’s midnight by the time we drag ourselves home.

On the way back to our house, Dad and I walk in the cold darkness of December. “Anjali,” he says, “have you been preparing for the Stuyvesant exam? It’s coming up.”

I’m quiet, thinking. “I know” is all I can manage. Then, “Yeah, I’ve been getting ready.”

Okay, so I’m lying. But I’ve been thinking about the Stuyvesant test, which is a way of getting ready. Sort of.

Deema and I wake up early on Christmas to get the family’s big Christmas lunch together while also making breakfast. After everyone gets up and shares
presents, my mom sits at the dining table to study while Dad relaxes on the couch to read his new book. Anand plays a new video game. Deema and I go back to the kitchen to work.

“Bayti
, is something troubling you?” Deema asks while we chop vegetables.

“No, Deema, why?” I answer. I’m able to avoid my grandmother’s eyes by checking on the pot of bubbling sorrel drink.

“You seem like your mind somewhere else,” she says.

“I have a school project on my mind is all.” I don’t want to talk about the video audition, not even with Deema.

For the rest of the holiday break, I keep worrying about the letter, rushing to the mailbox as soon as the postman comes or dashing up the stairs to go through the pile on the table if he gets there when I’m not home. Things are slow at the restaurant after Christmas and I finish all of my schoolwork in the first few days off. So I use the time left to study for the Stuyvesant exam, which is coming up in January.
I’ve got a few more weeks to study. I’m restless at night, not really sleeping, thinking about C-CAP, the Food Network, and our roti shop — and I’m rolling new recipes around in my thoughts, inventing them as I lie in bed, tossing.

By the time I go back to school after the New Year, I figure I definitely haven’t made the Food Network cut and try to put the whole thing out of my mind.

“Now I just feel stupid,” I say to Linc at school. “Like they probably watched my video and cracked up all day long.”

“Come on, Anjali, that’s dumb,” says Linc. “The video was good.”

“Yeah, I know,” I answer miserably. “I guess maybe
I
wasn’t good enough.”

That afternoon I go straight to the restaurant from school, doing my homework at an empty table when things are quiet and studying hard in the final stretch before the Stuyvesant exam. By the time I get home I’m almost too tired to stop in the kitchen for a glass of water. I sit down at the kitchen table with my drink and leaf through the pile of mail there. I almost miss
my name on one of the envelopes. I don’t recognize the return address so I assume it’s for one of my parents or Deema. SCRIPPS NETWORKS it says in big letters, and underneath: Food Network.

I snatch up the letter and tear open the envelope. I stop for a moment before pulling out the paper.

I close my eyes for a few seconds. I breathe. This sounds like a kiss-off. I open my eyes. I slowly keep reading.

I leap up. I’m dancing quietly, feeling the rhythms of David Rudder fill me. I want to yell but glance quickly at the clock. It’s too late to call Linc. I sit
down and bounce in my seat while I read about the details of the Food Network audition.

The tryout is on January 20. The same day as the Stuyvesant entrance exam. That’s when David Rudder’s
soca
beat stops suddenly. And I’m breathing even more now — actually, I’m trying to breathe.

1 cup (two sticks) unsalted butter

3/4 cup white sugar

3/4 cup packed brown sugar

1 large egg

1 teaspoon vanilla

2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

2 cups semisweet chocolate chips or 10 ounces good-quality dark chocolate chopped into chip-size pieces

1 cup sweetened coconut flakes

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit. Place the rack in the middle position in the oven.

2. Combine the butter and sugars in the bowl of a standing mixer. Mix on medium-high
until light and fluffy, about four minutes.

3. Add the egg and vanilla and mix well, stopping to scrape down the bowl as necessary.

4. Stir in the flour, baking soda, and salt until well combined.

5. Stir in the chocolate chips or chocolate pieces and coconut flakes. Mix well to form a stiff dough.

6. Drop the dough by rounded tablespoonfuls 2 inches apart onto ungreased cookie sheets that have been lined with parchment paper. Bake 8 to 10 minutes or until light brown. The centers will be soft. Let cool for 5 minutes, then remove from the cookie sheets and place on wire racks to finish cooling.

Makes 3 dozen cookies

8 cups water

1 cinnamon stick

6 cloves

1/2 cup dried sorrel flowers (available in Caribbean markets) or 4 hibiscus tea bags

2 cups sugar

1. Place 8 cups of water, the cinnamon stick, and the cloves in a saucepan and bring to a boil. Add the sorrel or the hibiscus tea bags and sugar. Simmer for 2 minutes.

2. Remove the mixture from the heat; cover and steep at least one hour but preferably overnight.

3. Strain the sorrel through a fine-mesh sieve or remove tea bags and store in
glass bottles in the refrigerator. Serve chilled. Sorrel keeps for up to 1 week.

Makes 6 to 8 servings

4 parts desire
1 part hope

5 dashes moxie

3 cups plans, well laid

1. Pour the desire into a heavy pot placed over high heat. Allow it to come to a hard boil and add the hope. Stir well and lower heat to a simmer.

2. When the mixture begins to thicken, add the moxie and mix rapidly, using a whisk. Remove from the heat.

3. Allow the mixture to cool until it is no longer steaming but still hot to the touch. Carefully fold in the well-laid plans until completely combined.

4. Pour into a heavy ceramic dish and allow to gel.

“Deema?” We’re drying dishes.

“Yes,
bayti
?”

“I want to talk to Mom and Dad about something.”

“What
something
?”

I tell her about making the finals and the fact that the actual tryout is the same day as the Stuyvesant test. The words fly out of me like butterflies eager to escape a jar. When I’m done, Deema is quiet, still drying the dishes.

“Deema?”

She puts down the plate in her hand and gives me a small smile.

“Your parents aren’t going to agree to that, Anjali,” she says. “I’m not so sure it’s a good idea myself.”

“But —” I begin.

Deema holds up one hand.

“This is sudden,
bayti
, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. I can’t agree to something I’m not sure is right.”

My heart starts to pound slowly but hard. I need Deema’s help. She’s the only one who can reason with my dad. My mom usually goes along with what he wants. I sigh and put the last dish away, then take off my apron. I look at Deema, who nods, taking off her own apron. She gestures toward the living room. Her little smile tells me she’s going to help smooth things over somehow.

In the living room, my father is parked in front of the TV. He’s watching a soccer game with Anand. Mom’s reading one of her textbooks at the table. I sit on the couch arm, waiting for the game to be over. It’ll be a lot worse if I interrupt my dad’s game. Deema joins my mother at the table and leafs through a catalog that’s come in the newspaper.

The game finally ends.

“Dad? Can I talk to you and Mom about something?”

“Sure, what’s up?” he says, turning toward me. I stand nervously and reach into my pocket, pulling out the acceptance letter for the Food Network tryout. I hand it to him silently. My mother looks up from her textbook while Dad reads.

“What is it, Anjali?” she asks.

Before I can respond, my father answers. There’s a big smile on his face.

“Could you believe it, Lottie? The girl actually got a shot at that Food Network thing.”

Anand looks away from the TV toward me. “No kidding, sis? WOW!” he says, getting up to give me a high five.

“Sweetheart, that’s wonderful!” my mom says, and rushes over to hug me.

I feel dizzy, like when I’m racing around the restaurant kitchen in the heat and I haven’t had enough water. Deema sits quietly at the table, still looking at the catalog.

“Ma? You hearin’ this?” my father calls over to her. “Ma?”

Deema stands up. “Yes, son, I hearin’, but I think Anjie has something else to say.”

I nod and try to swallow. My mouth is completely dry and I’m finding it hard to talk.