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The sound of the timer starting snaps my eyes open. “Start,” announces the electronic voice, following Chef Nelson’s activation of the countdown.
Now I have no choice but to ignore my discomfort by joining the scramble toward the cooler with my classmates. The space around me becomes a flurry of activity, hands reaching, bodies bumping, and a chorus of polite “excuse me’s” filling the air. My mind is already racing with plans for my dish—pan-seared salmon with a poached egg crowned with a richly flavored roasted pepper puree.
The intensity of the competition pushes my nausea aside for now. Focused, I start by preparing my peppers for roasting. I coat them in a mixture of butter, cinnamon, cloves, smoked paprika, and honey, then I slide them into the oven to roast. Next, I turn my attention to the soda bread dough. I believe in the power of homemade bread to elevate a dish. I plan to use the bread as the base for the other components. Next, I make a glaze of brown butter and honey for a crispy finish on my salmon.
“Thirty minutes,” announces the automated timer, reminding me of the fleeting time.
The tension escalates. Blenders, mixers, sizing, and clanking utensils fill the air. My bread is taking on a golden hue in the oven, signaling that it’s nearly time to focus on the ricotta. Amid the hustle and the heat that’s settling around us, I find myself in the zone. Testing the ricotta’s texture with a swipe of my finger, I confirm it’s precisely as it should be.
Suddenly, I change my plan and abandon the idea of adding a poached egg to my dish. I cannot risk having any element overpower the harmony of flavors that I intend for Chef Nelson to appreciate.
After just twenty minutes, the peppers have become a smooth puree, perfectly seasoned to complement the honey-glazed crackling layering my seared salmon. Now it’s time to plate.
“Five minutes,” the timer voices.
“I execute my next steps with precision. First, I cut a perfect slice of bread, toast it lightly for texture, and then shape it into a flawless circle. Then I artfully smear a foundation of pepper sauce on the plate, upon which I place the toast. Finally, I crown it with freshly made ricotta.”
“Two minutes!” echoes in the kitchen, ramping up the pressure.
I gently arrange a piece of the tender, flaky salmon on top of the ricotta, finishing with an additional drizzle of the vibrant sauce.
A final inspection and clean-up of my plate are completed just as the timer announces the end by buzzing.
Time’s up!
Fifteen Minutes Later
Chef Nelson moves methodically through the room, evaluating each student’s culinary creations with a discerning eye. The grading process seems unpredictable as he navigates from one station to the next, occasionally bypassing a few before returning. His approach keeps everyone on their toes, unsure of when their turn will come.
I’m getting antsy because now that the bustle of cooking and plating is over, my adrenaline rush is subsiding. That sick feeling nips at my stomach again. I cast an anxious glance at the clock, silently pleading for Chef Nelson to please hurry. The thought of needing to excuse myself before receiving his feedback is unbearable, both as a matter of personal pride and professional decorum.
As my sickness intensifies, desperation sets in. I scan the classroom for the nearest trash can, readying myself for the inevitable. The feeling of nausea becomes so overpowering that the fear of embarrassment fades into insignificance. I close my eyes, sway slightly, and silently plead for Chef Nelson to hurry up.
At long last, Chef Nelson approaches my station, making me his final stop for the day.
“You baked again?” he inquires, an eyebrow arching inquisitively.
“Yes, Chef,” I manage to say, hoping my urgency isn’t too apparent.
He leans in to smell my dish, and a moment of suspense hangs in the air. “Once again, you’ve managed to turn what could have been ordinary into a savory dessert,” he observes.
I muster a tight smile, silently pleading with my body to hold itself together for just a little longer.
He bends over and studies my plate before slicing through my entree with his fork. “Nice,” he compliments.
Chef Nelson artfully swirls his bite through the sauce on the plate and then places it in his mouth. My heart pounds as his jaw churns.
“This sauce is magnificent, Chef,” he comments, and then he goes for a second bite—a promising sign. It’s widely recognized among us students that while a single taste is usually enough for him to judge a dish, he tends to indulge in a few more bites when he’s particularly impressed.
He helps himself to another portion, noting, “Your fish is flaky, bread baked to perfection, and…”
But before he can finish his praise, and before I have the chance to modestly reply, “Thank you, Chef,” the overwhelming urge to puke takes over. With no time to spare, I dash as quickly as I can to the nearest trash can—right beside his teaching station. I feel everyone watching as I succumb to my nausea, unable to contain it any longer
Chapter 13
All The Tests in The World
Gina
