We Have Till Monday by Cara Dee

Author:Cara Dee
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Published: 2021-03-10T22:00:00+00:00

It stopped being fun when we got closer to the end of the class and everything had to be done at the same time. The sun blasted me with heat, there wasn’t a goddamn breeze to be found, the air smelled of food, my stomach was growling, and there were too many things to keep track of at once. The battered onion rings had to be fried, the bread had been dipped in a dry rub and was next to be thrown into a skillet, but the skillet was currently hotter than hell and full of oil and chicken.

After chugging from the water bottle Clara had handed out, I dumped the shredded cheese into the pot with the mac, then made sure the garlic butter was ready.

My brain was spinning from all the ingredients. From lard, buttermilk, and brown sugar to habanero, beer, and something called matzo meal. I was fairly certain I’d used one teaspoon too much of black pepper too.

“Motherf—” Don’t fucking curse! I quickly withdrew my hand as a drop of sizzling oil hit my knuckles.

Okay, what was next? I flipped the two pieces of chicken for an additional eight minutes, and I set the timer on my phone again. Then I stirred the mac and cheese and grimaced to myself. The mac was overcooked, wasn’t it? It felt overcooked.

I had to fry the onion rings now too. And melt the garlic butter. Cazzo.

About five minutes later, August had finished a story about his one and only fusion restaurant, which I’d barely heard a word of, and he trailed down the aisle to check in with us. Fucking Bethany declared herself finished.

I dug something called a basting brush from underneath a dish towel and began brushing the hot sauce over the deep-fried chicken that was resting next to the stove. Onion rings needed to get the fuck out of the oil stat.

“It looks like things are comin’ along well here,” August noted.

“Looks can be deceiving,” I muttered and started fishing out the onion rings.

The audience chuckled with August. Then he addressed everyone. “Remember to clean out the skillet properly before you pan fry the bread,” he instructed. “That’s how you get a crisp, slightly blackened surface on the bread while it stays soft inside. Butter or oil in the skillet makes the bread stick to the iron easier, and we don’t want that. We don’t want the butter to make the bread soggy either.”

Slightly blackened.

I’d do my best not to turn it into charcoal.

While the onion rings joined the chicken to rest and cool off a little, I cleaned out the skillet over the sink. We’d been given empty cardboard cartons to dispose of the oil because God forbid I poured it down the drain.

“Three minutes to go!” Clara hollered.

Fuck my life.

After wiping down the skillet, I threw it back on the stove and tossed in the bread on medium heat. Then I filled the half-cup-sized bowl with mac and cheese and got the melted butter and pickles ready.

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