FreeNovel
Abby
Duck. Pork. A flaky pastry dough.
It should be easy. I’ve practiced it a hundred times, tasted it a thousand. It’s one
of my favorite French dishes to make, and yet, as the stage descends into
organized chaos…
I’m frozen.
My eyes are wide like a deer in headlights. The deafening roar of the crowd, the
sound of voices and cooking utensils, the movement of the cameras and the
announcer’s voice booming over the microphone—all of it is too much.
Enter title…
Suddenly, I feel as though I’m being transported back in time, back to a time
Follow on NovᴇlEnglish.nᴇtwhen I was much younger…
It was my first year of culinary school, the end of my first semester. For our final
project, we were supposed to compete in a style not all that much unlike the
cook-off, minus the sky-high stakes and the television production of it all.
The class was gathered around our stainless steel tables, dressed in our fresh
white chef’s uniforms, as our professor—Chef Andrews—paced back and forth
in front of us, announcing our task for the day.
“Today,” he announced, “you will be preparing beef stroganoff. A simple dish but
one that demands attention to detail. I expect each and every one of you to
utilize the techniques we have been practicing all semester. You may begin.”
As the class launched into action, I felt my hands go clammy. I was at my
station, my ingredients in front of me, but my mind went blank.
How could I forget something as basic as beef stroganoff? I had made it a
dozen times before, but at that moment, it felt as though someone had wiped
my mind clean.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remember how to get it started. The
ingredients in front of me felt foreign, and I felt utterly lost.
My classmates seemed to be taking on the task just fine, dicing, searing, and
seasoning as if they were born with a skillet in their hand. Then there was
Michael, the guy who treated every class like a personal performance.
He sauntered over to my station, an unpleasant grin on his face.
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“Hey, Abby, what’s the matter? Cat got your tongue or did you forget how to
cook?”
I looked at him, struggling to muster a response.
“No, I… I know how to make it. Just… taking it all in,” I stammered, my face
turning red.
Michael chuckled as though he was savoring my discomfort. “You women just
don’t know how to act under pressure. Maybe you’d be better suited for office
work or something more… menial.”
Before I could answer, Michael walked away, leaving me astounded. That day, I
managed to scrape together a haphazard version of the classic dish, and I just
barely passed. I never forgot the words he said to me… that women couldn’t act
under pressure.
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