Chapter 0231


    Abby


    Duck. Pork. A ky 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.


    Suddenly, I feel as though I’m being transported back in time, back to a time when I was much


    Copyright N?v/el/Dra/ma.Org.


    younger…


    It was my first year of culinary school, the end of my first semester. For our final project, we were


    supposed topete in a style not all that much unlike the cook-off, minus the sky-high stakes and the


    television production of it all.


    The ss 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 ssunched into action, I felt my hands go mmy. I was at my station, my ingredients in


    front of me, but my mind went nk.


    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 ssmates 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 ss like a


    personal performance.


    He sauntered over to my station, an unpleasant grin on his face.


    “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 difort. “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 ssic dish, and I just barely passed. I never forgot the words he


    said to me… that women couldn’t act under pressure.


    Was that true? Was I one of those ‘women’ who couldn’t act under pressure? Was I doomed to give up


    on my dreams, all because of performance anxiety?


    “Abby, are you okay?” Karl asks, his concerned brown eyes popping into view. “Time’s ticking.”


    “Uhm…” I clear my throat. “Y-Yeah. I’m good. Let’s do this,” I reply, grabbing a skillet and setting it on


    the stove. New ch?pter av?ble o? NovelDrama.Org


    Michael was wrong. I can work under pressure. It’s just that sometimes, all I need is a little nudge,


    that’s all.