Expiration Date Page 2

  “We can still hear you,” Kenny called out. “And sorry about the eye thing.”

  Sherry pointed to the power button on the microphone. Nick clicked the device off.

  “Here you are, Ms. Stark.” Nick handed the mic to Brynne. He shuffled away, clipping Sherry’s table again as he passed by. This time she intercepted her parsley before it hit the floor.

  Mac Stiles, the event photographer and Brynne’s assistant, remained mute during her brief exchange with Nick. He had inched closer to Brynne, though, in what seemed to Sherry a show of solidarity. He even handed Brynne his cell phone, which Sherry guessed must have had the mirror app activated because Brynne scrutinized it as she wiped away the black makeup melting from her eyelashes. Following the kind act, Brynne mouthed a “thanks,” and Mac gave her a smile and a wink.

  Sherry blew a wayward strand of hair from her face. She wiped her hands on a towel and licked her dry lips. She began rehearsing a greeting for Brynne, who was moving closer. “I am so excited to be in the cook-off today.” Nope, an underseasoned comment, not interesting enough. “OrgaNicks is a great sponsor of today’s cook-off.” Overcooked adulation. “I hope the judges like my stuffed tenderloin.” The truth served up to perfection. She was ready for her interview. Sherry’s chin lowered a bit when Brynne and Mac made an about-face and veered away from her.

  A woman three tables down flinched when the hostess and photographer parked in front of her. Despite the fact that there were two active cooks between Sherry and the woman, the proximity was close enough to give her the opportunity to catch most of what was said.

  “Amber Sherman. How is our contestant from Maine doing?”

  “I’m doing the best I can,” Amber replied with the strength of fat-free cheese.

  Sherry strained to catch each word, knowing she might be next.

  “Please speak up.” Brynne guided the microphone closer to Amber’s lips. “This interview is streaming live throughout the auditorium next door. We want the paying public to hear you loud and clear.”

  “It’s harder than people would think, keeping it all on track and on time,” yelled Amber.

  The mic squealed with distortion.

  “Oops, sorry.” Amber placed her hand over her mouth. “Maybe now isn’t a good time to talk. I really need to keep a close eye on my shrimp. Bad things can happen if no one’s watching the pot.”

  “But if you watch it, it never boils, right? Isn’t that how the saying goes?” laughed Mac. “So you’re damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”

  As the interview deteriorated, Sherry’s oven timer went off. She squared her knife up to the edge of her cutting board, tidied her ingredient piles, and headed toward the ovens in the back of the kitchen.

  “Are you finished cooking, Ms. Frazzelle?”

  The sole of Sherry’s shoe caught on a raised floorboard, and she stumbled. She righted herself and tried to pinpoint where the question originated. She noticed Mac crouched down, gathering his camera bags. At the same time, Brynne and her microphone found Sherry.

  “Nope. Just a quick trip to check on things.” Sherry fumbled with the hair in her eyes while she caught her breath. “My timer went off, but that was just to remind me to double-check the oven. My tenderloin may or may not be ready.”

  The photographer rose and moved to within an arm’s length of Sherry. She assessed his ripped jeans, decaying sneakers, and grimy T-shirt. The outfit seemed better suited for changing his car’s oil than for performing his current profession.

  “Your shirt’s inside out.” Sherry gestured to Mac. Despite her efforts at discretion, Brynne’s mic broadcasted the comment back to the attentive audience in the next room, and there was an eruption of laughter heard through the doorway.

  “I’d like to say I got dressed in the dark, but what really happened was Nick Andime, Mr. OrgaNicks CEO himself, made me turn it inside out,” replied Mac, while he smothered the mic with his hand. “He was pissed because I had a competing company’s logo on it. I thought it was kind of a funny shirt to wear, but he freaked out. Guess ‘organic’ is a code word for uptight. He’s kind of a cranky guy.” Mac removed his hand from the microphone.

  “Well, I better get back to work.” Sherry turned her body with such conviction the strings of her apron loosened.

  “Let’s follow her, Brynne.” Mac shadowed Sherry’s steps toward the oven. “I’d bet anything, her plates are almost done, and I can get a good picture.”

  “Be careful, this oven’s really hot.” Sherry lowered the oven door just enough to release the meat’s fragrance and the sound of the gentle sizzling of its olive oil baste. She sniffed in and grinned. Her cheeks warmed. “Not quite done, but extremely close.” Sherry smiled at Mac. “After years of experience, the nose knows.”

  Mac clicked a photo of Sherry resetting her timer. Brynne and Mac followed her back to her workstation, where Sherry grabbed a large wooden spoon and a mixing bowl. She spooned farro from a saucepan to the bowl and began the process of seasoning the grain. A portion was stuffed in her tenderloin and the remainder would provide a bed for the meat when it was plated.

  “We are here with Sherry Frazzelle, our Augustin, Connecticut, contestant,” Brynne announced. “Sherry, do you have an ingredient in your recipe you’re confident will ‘wow’ the judges?”

  “And should we check your pockets for any super-secret ingredient you may have smuggled in?” Mac added.

  “Don’t even joke about that!” Sherry frowned and threw her hands up to her head. The wooden spoon in her elevated hand splattered mango chutney on Mac’s camera. “I know the rules, and you have to cook with exactly the ingredients listed in the recipe you submitted to the contest. And to answer your question, Brynne, I do have a ‘wow’ ingredient. It’s chutney. I love it so much I named my dog after it. My pup is sweet and spicy, just like the condiment.”

  “What a cute story! Thank you so much and best of luck to you,” said Brynne.

  Sherry flashed a fierce smile at Mac’s camera.

  Brynne clicked her tongue. “I’ll do the interviewing, Mac. You stick to taking pictures.”

  Sherry nodded in agreement with Brynne. The pair left Sherry as she dabbed her work-weary hands on her apron.

  After her perfectly roasted pork finished resting on her cutting board, she transferred slices to her plates. Sherry knew she had only one task left to complete. Having disposed of most of the parsley Nick Andime knocked to the floor, Sherry gathered up a sanitary half-dollar-size amount of the herb. She visualized where on her plate to place the bright green pop of color. Sherry decided to let the garnish fall from her hand and land at will on her food. She pushed her two completed plates of food to the front of her worktable. The palms of her hands came together in triumph. She filled her lungs with the sweet air of accomplishment and exhaled only after savoring the moment.

  “Time’s up! Cooking is now over,” announced Brynne. Along with Mac and Nick, she gathered in front of the cooks. “Thank you, finalists. Please stay by your plates until the judges are ready to taste test.”

  “Guess we just have to sit tight and be patient. Do you have any spare paper towels? I just ran out.” Sherry pointed to Kenny’s roll of towels.

  Despite the fact the towels were easily within his reach, Kenny made no effort to retrieve them. “Help yourself.”

  Sherry stretched across his table, losing her balance in the process, and grabbed the roll of paper towels just before landing on her elbows with a thud. A slight twinge in her overworked back convinced her to correct her crooked stance. The muscles in her body were beginning to tighten, and she inhaled and exhaled in practiced intervals, in hopes of softening them.

  “Are you okay?” Marla called to her sister.

  “A little tired. It’s been a long morning.”

  Sherry tore off some paper-towel sheets and blotted at the various foods splashed, squirted, and spilled on her apron. Her actions were futile, though, and only served to smear the stains tog
ether into a messy mosaic.

  “Forget it, Sher.” Marla wagged her finger at her sister. “Those stains are going to take hours of soaking to get clean.”

  “Why are you even bothering to clean up? See all the contest runners? They’re here to do the dirty work.” Kenny swatted some leftover tomato stems off his table onto the floor.

  “I like order, not chaos. Plus, I need something to do with my hands now that we’re done. You know, idle hands, devil’s workshop and all?” Sherry stepped behind Kenny and placed the paper-towel roll back on his table.

  “Suit yourself.” Kenny shrugged. “I know I didn’t come all the way from California to cook my best dish and then be expected to perform maid service afterward. Remember, we’re doing the sponsor a favor giving them free recipes. I don’t want to feel totally abused here. Speaking of the devil, here comes Slick Nick!”

  “Please stay by your designated workstation.” Nick Andime shot a sideways glance at Sherry. “The judges are winding down their presentations in the auditorium, and we need you to be ready at a moment’s notice to bring your finished plates to them for scoring.” Nick smoothed his well-oiled helmet of hair with all ten fingers before walking away.

  Sherry, feeling unfairly singled out, tossed Kenny a glance laced with indignation.

  “Hope he doesn’t get any of his follicular bacon grease on his baby blue leisure suit.” Kenny ran the back of his hand across his forehead. “That oil slick would be a bitch to clean up. It’s an environmental disaster all on its own.”

  Sherry used all her strength to avoid staring at Kenny’s four-fingered hand but failed. “Do you mind if I ask what happened to your finger?”

  “A story for another time.” Kenny plunged his hands in his pockets.

  “Are you heading back to California today, Kenny?”

  “On the red-eye, with a big check, hopefully!”

  “Are you okay, Sherry? Your forehead is a road-map of tension creases.” Marla stooped over across Kenny’s table.

  Sherry leaned in from the opposite side. “I’m worried about my pork. I wanted to taste it one more time because I’m not sure I used enough salt. Now I’m really second-guessing myself !” Sherry picked up one last parsley bit and tossed it in the garbage. She brushed her palm across her cutting board to feel for any otherwise undetectable bits to discard.

  “I’m sure you salted your dish perfectly, as usual.” Marla located a chair and pulled it up to her tiny cooking area. After sitting, she began tapping her leg with a soiled spatula. Each time the spatula made contact with her pants, food particles sprayed off.

  Sherry was unable to contain her revulsion. “Marla, what a mess you’re making.”

  “Relax. I’m not bothering anyone.”

  “How do you think you did?” Sherry brushed away a crumb from her shirtsleeve.

  “I think my recipe came out pretty well. I just hope the judges are partial to cheese, because I used a ton! My grits will be harder than the cow pies in my pastures, though, if they don’t get to judging pretty soon.”

  Sherry noted the calmness in her younger sister’s reply. Being so relaxed while under pressure was a trait Sherry wished she had the gene for.

  “How ’bout you?” Marla asked.

  Sherry flipped her hands palm side up. “I can’t tell. I was pretty nervous when we started. My mind went completely blank, and I couldn’t even remember my recipe. No matter how many times I do this, I can’t shake the opening bell nerves. The nonstop interviews with the hostess and the media are necessary, I know, but so distracting.”

  Nick Andime burst through the kitchen doors. “Contestants, thanks for your patience. The judges’ demonstration is running a bit long, but it’s winding down now.” Nick tucked his wayward necklace back into his dress-shirt collar and then dashed from the kitchen before anyone had a chance to question him.

  “Well, the game is in overtime, and this team’s grits may be going down for the count.” Marla slapped her leg with her spatula, sending debris flying.

  Kenny shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

  “Gluey grits. They could send me to the penalty box.” Marla gestured toward the empty chair behind Sherry. “Sit down, Sher. You might as well get comfortable and enjoy the show.”

  Before Sherry could turn around, Kenny pulled the seat up under his backside.

  “Ah, I’m so happy to take a load off.” Kenny let out an elongated sigh.

  Sherry groaned.

  Kenny put his finger up to his lips. “Shhh! I want to listen to this!”

  Sherry’s mouth dropped open. She lowered her gaze to the floor and concentrated on what was coming through the kitchen’s speakers.

  “And this final slide in the presentation is a gorgeous shot of the dish that launched my food truck when I was fresh out of culinary school in Philadelphia. Naïvely, I put all my resources into my truck I lovingly named ‘Casa Rolls.’ My menu specialized in personal-sized casseroles, and I spent a fortune retrofitting my truck to resemble a Rolls Royce. Genius, right? Unfortunately, Harry, of Harry’s Ham-bulance, greased the palms of a city official and stole my selling location out from underneath me. He’s in jail now, unrelated charges. I’m going to hand things over to Mr. Andime now.”

  “Thank you for sharing your story, Chef Tony Birns. Ladies and Gentlemen, we have reached the conclusion of our slide show. The time has come for judging. Chef Birns, Chef Baker, and Chef Lee are champing at the bit, pardon the pun, to start taste-testing.”

  In the kitchen, Sherry and the other cooks cheered, with the exception of the lanky contestant with tortoiseshell glasses. Jamie Sox wrung out his slender hands over and over until Sherry thought he might rub the skin right off. He adjusted his glasses and began pacing over the three-foot-wide area behind his cooking station. Two steps, about-face, two steps, about-face. When Jamie finally stopped, he threw his hands up to the top of his head. “Can we just get this over with, please? Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”

  Jamie’s repeated approach and retreat made Sherry feel claustrophobic in their tight confines. From one extreme to another. From Marla’s chill demeanor to Jamie’s overwrought state. It was like a side-by-side comparison of a vanilla wafer and chipotle chili cheese dog.

  “Mr. Andime, may I add one more thing? I would personally like to invite the members of our audience, the cook-off staff, and our talented contestants to use the discount coupon you found on your seat and come eat at my restaurant, Chef Lee’s Splayd and Spork, located in beautiful Stamford, Connecticut. Contestants, you will find yours in your OrgaNicks gift basket. Our specialty is ‘universal fusion!’”

  Kenny laughed through his nose. “Sounds more like ‘useless con-fusion.’”

  “Why are you so ornery?” Sherry’s question fell on deaf ears. Kenny just shifted in his seat. “Well, I think the restaurant coupon is a great idea. I can’t wait to use mine.”

  “Thank you, Chef Lee. Contestants, would you please line up with the two plates of food you have constructed. Remember to bring one to the judges’ table and one to the display table. Please keep your contest aprons on until directed otherwise,” a female voice announced through the speakers.

  “It’s go time!” Kenny leaped out of his seat.

  Sherry secured a serving of her prepared recipe in each hand and stood ready for further instructions. A wave of thick sour air wafted through her nostrils. She swallowed hard to suppress something acidic rising in her throat. She glanced at Jamie, who was doubled over just off her right elbow.

  Jamie straightened up with a groan. “Can anyone help me carry my plates? I’ve got a mess here.”

  Sherry turned to offer assistance, but when she pivoted, she was met with a scene messier than a napkinless Sloppy Joe dinner.

  “I don’t believe what I’m seeing.” Kenny sidestepped the pool of vomit. “Dude, be a man and carry your own stuff. Do you see the rest of us losing our lunches?”

  Jamie removed his glasses and wiped t
hem with the hem of his contestant apron. “I didn’t mean to. It just happened again.”

  A man in a brilliant white coat embroidered with the name Chef Anthony Birns appeared at Sherry’s side. Sherry corrected her slumping posture and forced a smile. “Chef Birns, we were just listening to your fascinating talk. Be careful of the mess on the floor.” Sherry curled down the sides of her mouth as the acrid smell assaulted her senses.

  “My first chance to get to the men’s room all morning.” A bead of sweat trickled down the chef ’s temple. Sherry resisted the urge to put down her plates and dab his face with a napkin.

  Chef Birns walked past Sherry and laid a kitchen towel over the mess at Jamie’s feet. “Whew.” The chef recoiled. He inspected his hands before wiping them down the sides of his pants. He studied the cook’s nametag. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sox. You have to carry your plates yourself. The contest rules state no one besides the contestant themselves and their assigned helpers is permitted to touch the plates. It’s necessary to avoid any tampering or accidental mishaps.”

  “I agree, Chef,” said Kenny. “The contestant should know the rules, shouldn’t he?”

  Sherry rolled her eyes.

  Nick Andime reentered the kitchen. “Chef Birns, we need you. Where are you going?”

  “Nature calls. Be right back.”

  Nick clapped his hands three times. “Okay, people, time to move out. Watch your step, please, as you pass Mr. Sox’s table. One plate to the display table and one plate to your assistant, who will see that it gets to the judges’ table.”

  Chapter 3

  “Okay, kids, put on your best beauty-pageant smile. Time to make our entrance.” Kenny led the line of six cooks into the auditorium.

  Sherry wore a broad grin, bolstered by the audience’s hearty round of applause. She and the other cooks made their way to their reserved front-row seats.

  “Do you mind if I sit next to my sister?” Sherry asked.