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
“On it,” he responds, jogging toward the pantry. He returns a few moments later, and we swap places. “Make sure to turn the duck and sear it evenly,” I call out as I begin to mix the ingredients together to make the dough. “Use the red wine for moisture. Yeah, just like that, perfect…” …
Abby “And the contestants moving on to the final round are... Abby, Bryan, and Daniel.” The announcer’s voice sparks an explosion of cheers. “Abby, you’ve done it!” Karl’s voice carries over to me through the noise, and I turn to face him, my smile so wide it almost hurts. “I know,” I breath
Abby The director holds up three fingers, his mouth moving silently as he counts down to live. Three… two… one. “And… we’re back!” The announcer's voice booms across the studio, and the audience erupts into cheers and applause as an assistant holds up cue cards out of the camera’s view. “What a
I move toward the standing mixer, throwing ingredients in, taking care to measure with conviction. Cooking is one thing, but making is another; there is no room for measuring mistakes. An extra tablespoon of sugar could ruin the whole dish. Karl grins, his voice cutting through the tension. “Don’t
Abby The buzzer goes off, and the contestants place down their dishes, stepping back from their stations. The room is alive with murmurs, excitement from the crowd as their eyes scan the three dishes on the stage. The judges step down from their booth, their gazes inscrutable. My hands tremble,
Abby I’m sitting by myself in the breakroom, my fingers wrapped around a cardboard cup of coffee from the vending machine. The coffee has already gone cold, but it’s not like I was drinking it anyway. The taste was too bitter for what I need right now. Karl stepped out just a few minutes ago. He
“I know my way around a kitchen better than you ever will,” I retort, although the words feel hollow even as I spit them out. “Abby, Abby, Abby,” he tuts, pushing off from the counter to take another step closer. “You can barely navigate your way out of a paper bag. This competition? It’s not for