The Last Ramekin
Liz Pierce
56:00
Molly’s knife moved so fast it blurred, and, without looking up, she sensed the judges leaning forward in their seats, searching for any sign of magically-enhanced speed.
Let them look.
The speed of her knife was all in her hands, although if she were being honest with herself, some of the blur—at least from her point of view—was likely due to the fumes stinging her eyes as she turned the onion into a pile of small white bits, the knife chopping and scraping across the slightly textured surface of the nylon cutting board.
Damn!
She’d tossed a couple of onions in the freezer as soon as she entered the competition kitchen, before she’d even decided what she was going to cook, a move she was sure had gotten raised eyebrows from at least a few of the judges, scribbling on their scorecards and deciding whether or not to dock points for the action. In her favor would be those judges who were aware of the tear-prevention technique, and would be watching her closely. There hadn’t been time for the first onion to chill enough for tear-free cutting, but Molly didn’t dare blink to clear her eyes, or wipe the moisture away with the back of her hand, or she’d lose their support right out of the gate.
She ignored the fumes.
She’d started with onions. She almost always used onions. And garlic. And peppers. And a variety of herbs and spices. She could just imagine the television announcer’s narrative as he reported her actions to the viewing audience in hushed tones: “In an unsurprising opening move, Molly McTavish, the Kitchen Witch”— there would be a definite sneer in his voice as he said those words—“has once again selected her standard set of ingredients. Can she truly hope to outperform the wizards and sorceresses in this competition with such humble fare?”
Whatever.
She was a kitchen witch, and proud of it. And she was the first kitchen witch in history to make it to the final round of the Culinary Conjurers competition. The narrator could sneer all he wanted, but Molly knew there were hundreds of kitchen witches out there in viewer-land cheering her on—including dear old Gran, who had taught her how to cook in the first place, and who would be watching on the tiny old television that just fit on the open cupboard shelf next to the cookbooks in her little Irish cottage.
Even her fellow finalists had come to acknowledge her skills and accept her over the course of the competition. They certainly treated her with less disdain than they had at the beginning of the week. It was possible—though she thought it unlikely—that they even respected her a little.
Molly took a deep breath, slid the minced onions into a small bowl, and went to work on the garlic. No time for potions and politics now, she chided herself, using one of her Gramps’ favorite phrasings; she had a dinner to prepare.
She glanced at the stove as she slid the papery skins from the firm garlic bulbs. Bubbles were beginning to cling to the inside walls of the large silver pasta pot full of water on the back center burner. She didn’t need it to boil too soon, so had filled it with cold water and tossed in pinches of salt and herbes de Provence, the thyme and lavender of the herb blend infusing the water and drifting over her kitchen like a simmering potpourri while she worked on other parts of the meal.
On the front left burner, nearest to her, the frozen butter she’d chopped and tossed into a pan over a low heat was finally beginning to melt.
She smashed the garlic to a fragrant, gooey pulp, scraped the blob off the cutting board and dropped it into the butter with one hand, her other hand reaching for the flat-edged wooden spatula in her apron pocket. She quickly stirred the garlic into the butter, which was just beginning to bubble, then dumped in the bowl of chopped onions, stirring them until they were coated with the garlicky mixture. With a deft shake of the skillet, the mixture spread out across the bottom of the pan, sizzling gently, the warm fragrance of onions and garlic coiling up out of the pan and swirling around her head.
It smells like Gran’s cooking. It smells like home.
She spun around, retrieving the packet of chicken tenderloins from the refrigerator. She used a cooking fork to nick the plastic wrapping on the package, peel it back, then lift each of the six tenderloins and place them in the skillet, the thick, meaty ends nearly touching in the center of the skillet, the pieces fanning out toward the outer edges like a fleshy pink flower set in a bubbling bed of white-gold.
Molly heard the judges murmuring in approval, then covered the pan, steam instantly obscuring the glass lid as she noted the time.
52:00
She tracked the tasks in her head, like a mental checklist.
Proof the yeast for the breadsticks.
Dredge the shrimp in flour and spices.
Turn the chicken in five minutes.
Competition cooking was all about timing and presentation, and, so far, Molly was on track with both. She flew to her next task, and the next, and the next, slicing and dicing, measuring and mixing, and clearing her workspace as she went so she’d have both clean tools and a space for the next task.
Around the competition hall, six other chefs in six identical kitchens also raced the clock, bright studio lights shining down on them, illuminating every action, every misstep for the cameras. This was the final round, and they were the last seven contestants—all that remained of the fifty wizards, witches, sorcerers, and conjurers; a veritable conclave of cooks, bakers, chefs, and sous-chefs who had begun the grueling competition a mere week ago.
They had one hour in which to prepare one last meal, and they were focused on their task. Steam whooshed from pans, meat sizzled in invisible tendrils of mouth-watering fragrance, knife blades hit cutting boards with rhythmic precision, and over it all, a large clock ticked the seconds like a metronome.
There was no time for anything else. There was almost no talking, very little of their usual banter.
And no magic.
This round—the final round—was a test of skill, of speed. Of their ability to mix and measure and cut and cook using only their own two hands, unaided by magic of any sort.
They’d had no advance warning of the rules for the round. They’d simply been led into their competition kitchens to discover them unusually stocked, with previously opened packages and containers of some items, while other items were brand new and still sealed. Dirty dishes and utensils were scattered on the counters or soaking in the sinks.
“Your kitchens have been prepared to simulate the average household kitchen on an ordinary weekday afternoon,” the senior judge had told them. “In this scenario, your spouse is bringing home important guests for dinner. Your challenge is to prepare a simple, yet elegant, meal for six people, and be prepared to receive guests in your home in one hour.”
Molly looked at the other chefs, all of whom were glancing as skeptically toward their kitchens as she had, but no one seemed particularly worried about completing the challenge in the time allotted.
“In the spirit of this scenario,” the judge continued, “you will be allowed to borrow from your neighbors—no more than one item from each, please—but you are not required to do so. You gain no points for providing an item to one of your fellow chefs; however, each item you borrow will cost you one point.”
This was a new twist, Molly thought. They’d not been allowed to share anything in previous rounds. On the other hand, the competition kitchens hadn’t been presented in such a disorderly state in previous rounds, either. She wondered what key ingredients might be missing from her pantry.
“Finally,” the judge said, “there is one last condition for this round: You may not use magic. Points will be deducted for any infraction—and to use sporting terminology, after three strikes, you’re out.”
Then the bell rang, and the large countdown clock on the wall behind the judges’ table began ticking.
The chefs stood there, looking from the judges to the messy kitchens in stunned silence for a few critical seconds. Then, as one, they all rushed forward.
The race was on.
35:00
The first penalty was thrown twenty-five minutes into the competition. Molly didn’t know what had happened at first, but, like the rest of the chefs, had stopped what she was doing and looked up in surprise when a loud buzzer sounded. They all watched in silence as a yellow silk ribbon fluttered down from the rafters toward Gustav’s kitchen, at the opposite end of the half-circle of competition kitchens from her own.
The ribbon swam through the air like an eel, hungrily drawing golden sparks from the counter where the tall, lanky wizard had employed some minor magic in his preparations. As the ribbon sailed out of the kitchen, it settled on the floor in the shape of a large, glittering X.
Gustav said nothing, but even from across the room, Molly could see his mouth pressed in a firm line as he returned to his work.
Yikes!
Molly redoubled her efforts.
She wasn’t nearly the baker that Gustav was, but her breadsticks were rising nicely and would go into the oven soon, small fingers of dough dipped in butter and rolled in a mixture of herbs, garlic powder, and more shredded Parmesan. She’d found several packets of fast-rising yeast next to a partial tin of baking powder in her kitchen’s pantry just as Maribel, the sorceress in kitchen number three, called out for baking powder.
None of the other kitchens had any to spare, so Molly had decided to risk the time to work up the yeast dough rather than make a much simpler recipe of drop biscuits, scooped out a couple tablespoonfuls of baking powder for the cake she’d decided to bake for dessert, and tossed the tin to Maribel. There wasn’t much left, but Molly hoped there’d been enough for whatever the sorceress was making.
21:00
Molly’s cake smelled almost ready, its warm, rich mocha permeating the air close to the oven. She glanced up at the clock. Four minutes before she could pull it out and swap in the breadsticks.
Just enough time to assemble the main dish.
She’d found a set of personal-sized ramekins in one of her kitchen’s cupboards, and scooped a tumble of pasta into each, topping it with portions of chicken and shrimp, over which she’d poured the bubbling hot spiced scampi sauce, garnishing the dish with a few curls of freshly shredded Parmesan and a sprinkling of parsley leaves. The ramekins only needed a few moments under the broiler to toast each dish to a lovely shade of gold.
Breathe.
If she got in a hurry, she’d forget about the rules and accidentally use her magic, like Gustav had. She was certain he hadn’t been trying to cheat, automatically reaching for the power like he probably did every day. She’d nearly earned a penalty herself, almost leaving a spoon stirring the sauce while she dug through a cupboard for the paprika, and only remembered at the very last moment—fortunately, while the tips of two fingers and her thumb still grasped the utensil’s handle.
That was really the hardest part of this challenge, Molly thought. Her competition kitchen had been ridiculously messy, but surprisingly well-stocked; once she’d decided on the meal she wanted to prepare, she’d had to make very few substitutions of ingredients, and she’d had enough other items on hand to loan something to almost every other chef in the round.
But not being able to magically whisk used dishes clean or clear the counter with a snap of her fingers—now that was hard.
17:00
She finished loading the ramekins, then took a few seconds to add still more items to the now nearly-full dishwasher, spinning the dial to the “fast wash” setting and switching it on before turning back to the oven.
Right hand, open oven door.
Left hand, grab pot holder and remove cake.
Right hand, grab tray of breadsticks and insert into oven.
Left hand, hold cake out of the way, while trying not to burn fingers on threadbare spot of pot holder.
Right hand, close oven door.
Turn, take two steps across room to refrigerator.
Left hand, do not drop cake in spite of the fact that heat is now zinging through fingers.
Right hand, open refrigerator.
Left hand, put cake on empty rack, cleared for this purpose.
Right hand, close refrigerator door.
Turn, take three steps to sink and dunk left hand in colander of slowly thawing frozen raspberries.
No magic, no magic, no magic.
07:00
Every time a yellow ribbon fell, it seemed to Molly that the clock ticked just a little louder, the hands moving across its face just a little faster. With seven minutes remaining, only Molly and a tiny, white-haired wizard named Nicholas in kitchen number four had managed to avoid collecting penalty ribbons.
Kamaria, a Kenyan sorceress who had confided to Molly a few days earlier that the secret to her wonderful doughnuts was a pinch of cardamom in the dough, only had one penalty ribbon. But Agatha, an accomplished conjurer who had borrowed a cup of sugar from Molly early in the round, had collected three, one right after another. Kitchen number six, right next to Molly’s, now stood dark and empty.
Gustav had earned a second ribbon, which he’d batted away like a pesky insect. Maribel also had two, as did Joaquin, the Argentinian conjurer in kitchen number two who Molly had given a bag of baking potatoes. The tension radiated from their three kitchens as strongly as the varied cooking scents that filled the competition studio.
Think happy thoughts.
Molly tried to ignore the building tension and mentally reviewed her list. The ramekins of scampi were waiting in the still-warm oven, no longer cooking, but maintaining their temperature until serving time.
06:00
She set a small dining table with plates and service for six.
05:00
She placed the breadsticks in a wooden bowl, covered with a towel, near the middle of the table. Next to it, in a matching wooden bowl, was a salad of spinach greens, thin slivers of red onion, mandarin oranges (canned, from one of the cupboards), and raspberries (from the freezer), tossed with a simple vinaigrette that she’d made while the cake was cooling. Pecans and feta cheese would have been nice additions, but her competition kitchen was lacking in those ingredients, and she was unwilling to risk losing the points borrowing them from another kitchen would cost her.
04:00
She placed the cake on the counter, covered in fluffy white frosting that she’d whipped by hand—the action helping relieve some of the tension of the rapidly evaporating time—and topped it with a pinch of tiny chocolate sprinkles she’d found in the pantry right next to the box of panko crumbs she’d tossed to Nicholas.
03:00
She pulled the lemonade from the refrigerator, the large glass pitcher instantly glistening with condensation, bright yellow lemon slices floating merrily amid the ice cubes as she carried the pitcher to the table. She wanted to drink it all down, let its tart sweetness quench her thirst. But there was no time.
02:00
Her hands still chilled from the lemonade pitcher, Molly quickly grabbed the potholders and swung open the oven door. Heat washed over her in a wave as she reached into the oven for the baking tray holding the six ramekins. She lifted it from the oven, using her foot to raise the oven door and her hip to push it closed as she turned, and was only two steps from the table when the threadbare section of the potholder slid away from the fingers of her right hand, exposing them directly to the heat of the baking tray.
Instinctively, she jerked her hand away from the heat.
Time seemed to stretch, the ticking of the clock booming in Molly’s head, as the baking tray wobbled in her left hand then tipped, and the ramekins slowly began to slide, first one, then another falling off the tray.
No magic, no magic, no magic!
Molly righted the tray, diving toward the falling ramekins, her empty, burned hand outstretched in a futile attempt to catch the dishes. The first one crashed to the floor in an explosion of scalding shrimp and pasta. Heated shards of crockery shot across the floor in all directions, glistening trails of cream sauce marking their passing.
Tick, tick, tick, tick.
The next ramekin hit the floor less explosively, its fall cushioned by a piece of chicken from the first; but the third crashed into the second, sending a spray of pasta and sauce gushing upwards.
Molly saw a shrimp fly past her face as she fell, still struggling to balance the tray with the remaining ramekins. The unfortunate crustacean seemed to spin in the air in slow motion, momentarily mesmerizing her.
Mmm! It smells delicious!
And then she hit the floor, her left shoulder landing in the mound of pasta, her arm outstretched, the baking tray still in her hand. The remaining three ramekins shot forward, flying off the tray and spinning across the floor. One disappeared into the darkness at the back of the studio, its passage noted by a sharp “Hey!” from its hapless target.
The second crashed into the open doorframe with a loud crack, an explosion of pasta splattering the wall.
The last ramekin seemed to have caught a bit of a spin in its flight—whether from the angle of its fall, or a chance encounter with a splash of creamy debris, Molly never knew. It slid forward, out of her reach, its path curving slightly and slowing, bringing it to an undamaged stop on the floor directly in front of the judge’s table.
Tick, tick, tick.
In less than a minute, the work of the past hour was undone.
As the large studio clock ticked its way toward the final minute of the competition, Molly pulled herself to her feet with as much dignity as she could muster, and retrieved the last ramekin. Gingerly, she carried it back to her dinner table, placing it gently between the bowls of salad and breadsticks.
01:00
Molly stepped back, standing next to her table, head held high, hands clasped behind her back, pasta and shrimp coating her shoulder and sliding to the floor with small splooshing sounds. Video of her ramekin debacle was going to go viral, no doubt about it—they were probably already replaying it for the viewing audience. She looked directly at the judges, a small, defiant smile touching her lips.
No magic. So there!
And then, from across the studio, a sharp sound broke the silence, as of someone snapping their fingers, followed immediately by the penalty buzzer. Molly started, looking over to see Nicholas, one hand raised and pointing at her table, even as a yellow ribbon drifted down, looping around his arm, and forming an X at his feet.
Molly’s single ramekin had become three.
She stared at Nicholas, her mouth falling open in surprise. He simply smiled and nodded at her as the judges scribbled furiously on their scorecards.
00:45
There was a bright flash of light, accompanied so quickly by the penalty buzzer that they almost seemed to have occurred simultaneously, and once again the number of ramekins on Molly’s table multiplied.
She whirled around, just in time to see a second yellow ribbon settling at Kamaria’s feet. Like Nicholas, the sorceress was smiling at Molly, but she said nothing.
00:30
“What are you doing?” Molly hissed, not trusting her voice above a whisper.
“The rules placed no restriction on what could be shared,” said Maribel. “You shared your extra ingredients with us, Kitchen Witch.” She glanced at the ribbons at her feet, then looked back up at Molly. “They had extra magic to share with you. Don’t waste it.”
Molly looked around at the other chefs in amazement. She was a kitchen witch. She could cook up a storm, but her magical skills would never compete with any of theirs. Yet there they were, wizards, sorcerers, conjurers, all smiling broadly at her, yellow penalty ribbons at everyone’s feet but her own.
They had done this for her.
00:15
Gran had often told Molly that the best meals often aren’t those with the most elegant presentation or the most exotic ingredients—all of which are nice enough—but those that are shared with friends. And in those few critical moments, with wizards and sorcerers and conjurers and witches all around the world watching on live television, the other chefs had treated her as an equal, as a friend.
She had the advantage in points. She could win easily, assuming the judges hadn’t docked her severely for the pasta and seafood now cooling in fragrant lumps around the studio.
But winning was no longer the only thing that mattered.
Molly turned to her table, quickly weaving a spell of her own. She spoke softly, but in the silence of the studio, the musical lilt of her Irish accent carried her words to the other chefs.
“May you live a long life, full of gladness and health,” she said, as she placed ramekins at the two places on the far side of the table.
00:11
“With a pocket of gold as the least of your wealth.” She placed a ramekin at the head of the table and another at the place at its left.
00:08
“May the dreams you hold dearest be those which come true.” She moved the remaining two ramekins to the last two empty places.
00:05
“And the kindness you spread keep returning to you.” With that, Molly stepped away from the table and clapped her hands together.
The penalty buzzer sounded, and a yellow ribbon dropped, sparks dancing along the tabletop as it tried to find the spell Molly had woven. In its wake, loose threads unwound from the ribbon as it passed each place setting. As the ribbon slid off the table and folded itself into an X at Molly’s feet, the threads it had left behind coiled into glittering patterns, forming a set of enchanted place cards spelling out the names Molly, Gustav, Joaquin, Maribel, Nicholas, and Kamaria.
“My friends,” Molly whispered, “welcome to my table.”
00:00
When not tinkering on an art project or conjuring in the kitchen, Liz Pierce writes what she calls “suburban fantasy”—stories that blur the boundaries between the real world and the fantastical, but are lighter and less edgy than their urban cousins. And hopefully, a little more fun. Whether it’s the exploits of teenaged junior deities walking the halls of Olympus High, or the challenges faced by Faerie Folk trying to cope with jobs, neighbors, and mortgages, the results are often unexpected. You can find more of her work at lizpiercebooks.com.