Love & Other Disasters(2)

“Anyway, this is weird, right? That we are going to be on TV. That this is real. All I can think about is onions, which is so dumb because everyone else is probably thinking about, you know, veal and foie gras or whatever. Although I’m also thinking about how I’m probably going to trip over someone’s feet the first time we all run into the pantry. And how I will likely forget how to cook as soon as the timer starts.” She paused to laugh a little at herself. “A veritable parade of positive thinking, right here.”

Dahlia pointed to her head. Attempted a charming smile.

Strawberry Blond Hair blinked.

“Cool, okay, so, great. Good talk. Bye.”

Dahlia turned to pivot around their shoulder right as a pale hand landed on her arm.

“This way, honey.”

Thank the goddesses above. Producer Janet was saving Dahlia from herself. If such a thing was even still possible.

Swallowing, Dahlia tried to take it all in as Janet led her through the curving maze of cooking stations that took up the majority of the floor space in the cavernous set. But mainly, all she could focus on was how much she liked the bright red frames of Janet’s glasses, and the small pulse of warmth that had pushed into her pounding heart when Janet called her honey.

They stopped at the very front of the semicircle of stations, all the way to the right.

“Here you go, Miss Woodson. This is you.”

And with a reassuring smile, Janet whirled away to direct the next contestant.

Here were all the details Dahlia had seen on TV for the last seven seasons of Chef’s Special: the deep greens and golds and sparkling turquoise scattered throughout the set in pops of colored glass. How the dark wood of the walls and the floor contrasted against those lighter hues.

She had always thought the set resembled an old Scottish castle on the moors, only recently been paid a visit by Queer Eye. Cozy and strong all at once, its foundations invoking a sense of time and honor—and here and there, some bright splashes of cheer.

Dahlia stared down at the shining, stainless steel countertop of the station. Her station. She recalled the blank look on Strawberry Blond Hair’s face a few minutes ago, as she made a fool of herself within minutes of stepping onto set, and resisted the urge to lean down and smack her forehead against that stainless steel a few times.

Instead, she closed her eyes and breathed in through her nose, like that yoga class she went to once a year ago had taught her.

Onions. The scraggly brown bits on the top and bottom. The pure white of the insides, firm yet pliant. The reliable structure of layers. So many recipes started with the basic building block of a finely diced onion.

Dahlia was learning, in her new life, to take things one step at a time. If she started with basic building blocks, focused on each small step, she could accomplish things.

Dahlia’s eyes blinked open as a tall white man with dark hair ambled over to the workspace next to hers. He was looking down, furiously scribbling in a small notepad. Oh god. People were taking notes, and Dahlia felt like she’d barely heard half the words coming out of Janet’s mouth this morning. And Janet was loud.

“Hey,” the tall dude said, finally looking up. He stuck his pencil behind his ear, all cool like, and held out a hand. “Jacob. Looks like we’re tablemates.”

Dahlia shook his hand. She thought she maybe said her name. She was thrown by how confident he seemed, when all she could think about, aside from onions and that embarrassing scene under the archway, was how gassy she suddenly was. Her stomach was making alarming gurgling sounds. She glanced around the room. All the other contestants were making idle chatter, smiling at each other. They ranged from cocky and attractive, like Jacob, to a short older woman in the opposite corner, her salt-and-pepper bob shaking as she nodded vigorously at the Black woman next to her.

Wait. Dahlia recognized that bob. She had met that bob on the shuttle to the hotel from the airport two days ago. A grandma from Iowa, Dahlia remembered now. She was exactly what you would expect from a Midwestern grandma: kind, but sharp. Like you knew she made a mean apple pie, but also wouldn’t let you get away with any of your shit. Dahlia had loved her immediately. Barbara! That was her name.

A small spark burst to life in Dahlia’s veins.

If Barbara could do this, so could she.

But when Dahlia’s eyes glided away from Barbara, the faces of everyone else blurred at the edges.

She took another deep breath. Peppers. She liked chopping peppers too. Not as satisfying as an onion, but so aesthetically pleasing. Exquisite, vibrant colors, colors that were almost hard to imagine emerging from nothing but seeds, sunshine, dirt.

All you needed were building blocks.

“Hello, contestants of season eight!”

Dahlia swiveled back around.

Holy leapin’ lizards.

Sai Patel. Sai Patel was in front of her. Standing in the middle of the Golden Circle, where the contestants would be called at the end of each Elimination Challenge to greet their glory or their doom. Dahlia was suddenly disconcerted that her cooking station was so close to this circle, this space which would spike her anxiety and determine her future. It would, in fact, never escape her vision.

Everything was fine.

“I know how nervous you are right now.” Bless Sai Patel, and his mussed dark hair, and his shirt with the top button unbuttoned, for saying this out loud. “But remember—we chose you, out of thousands of possible contestants, for a reason. You’ve already gotten through the hardest part. You’re here! And now? This is when the fun starts.”