Page 46 of The Interception
Wait…pickles. My near-death experience with the jalapeno pickles weeks ago comes rushing back to me.
“Find me some jalapenos and honey. Hurry. I have an idea.” In an instant, our classic garlic butter chicken sandwich has morphed into something completely off the rails, but hopefully in a grand way. He’s off in a dash to bargain with othercompetitors. Most of them shoo him away, but I trust he’ll find someone with a kind heart to trade ingredients. Meanwhile, I get to work.
I peel and slice up the grapefruit and get the griddle hot on the grill. Once it’s ready, I sprinkle the grapefruit with the ginger and pray Ender gets his hands on some honey and jalapenos, or else this whole thing is going to implode. While the ginger soaks into the grapefruit slices, I use our original fried chicken recipe and cut the chicken breasts into strips, coat them, and fry them in the grill-side fryer. Now I can get busy with the burger buns. I slather them with melted butter and drop them on the griddle before glancing around to see where Ender has wandered off to.
He's rushing back to me with a wide grin and a small cup of honey and one jalapeno. “I might have to sign an infinite number of autographs at Lori’s kid’s next birthday party, but I got her extras.” He drops them on the counter and peeks at what I’m doing. “Oh…that looks…interesting. Where are we going with this?”
“Spicy, tart, and crunchy with a dash of sweetness. I hope,” I say, and glance up at him from my work chopping up the jalapeno. “Wanna help me with the sides? I think we can still make fries?”
Ender gets a feel for what I’m doing, assesses the ingredients, and shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so. What about sweet potato fries instead? And maybe…” He pauses and takes another account of what’s left. “Do we have the molasses we were going to use in the dipping sauce for the fries?”
Ugh, please don’t let that be another mistake. I haven’t seen it, but then again, I was in full-panic mode when he arrived. I pull the buns off the griddle before searching the pile of ingredients I couldn’t use. “Ah, here it is.”
“Perfect. What do you think about this?” He shoves ketchup, mayonnaise, molasses, and Cajun seasoning into a pile. It’s ahodgepodge of the things we’d planned to use for the sauce anyway—minus the Cajun seasoning—but it could work. I run through the flavor palette in my mind and realize it will not only work, but will complement the chicken sandwiches perfectly.
“Go for it.” I shift my focus back to my work even while Ender utilizes his master knife skills, the ones that have the crowd going ga-ga, to slice the sweet potatoes. My chicken is done, so I pull it out, making room for his potatoes.
Ender moves around me, drops them into the fryer basket, and lowers it in. “Almost there,” he says, and brushes his hand over my shoulders. “We’ve got it. We’re good.”
“I hope so. This is either going to be delicious or disgusting. I haven’t decided yet.” My confidence is waning. More than waning, it’s almost shot, but I have to tell myself it’s going to be delicious. Tangy grapefruit, sweet honey, a little heat from the jalapenos, and the well-seasoned, crispy, crunchy, juicy chicken, surrounded by a buttery bun. And Ithinkit might be all right. I manage to arrange the chicken on the bun, caramelize the grapefruit slices a bit with a drizzle of honey, drop them on top of the chicken with a little extra honey, some diced jalapenos, and plain old mayo.
Ender plates the fries and adds a small condiment bowl filled with his sauce to the side. Once my chicken sandwich is complete, I add it to the plate and check the time. We have three minutes to spare.
“What to drink? Do we try or just—”
Ender is already busy with the remaining grapefruit. He wets the rim of the glass and dips it into some of the remaining ginger sugar. “Can you juice that?” He rolls the grapefruit my way.
We don’t have a juicer, so it’s the good old muscles’ time to shine. I slice it open and squeeze it until my hands hurt, giving us enough juice to mix with sparkling water—one of thestandards we always have on hand—to make a decent drink. He pours the mixture into the glass just as the time goes off.
“And that’s our time, folks!”
Everyone stops working and steps away from their stations while the organizers collect the meals and move them to the judging station.
Ender finally sits and takes a rest while the judges deliberate. Now that I can take a breath, I turn my focus to the food I stressed over…but I haven’t even tried. I pick up one of the remaining sandwiches and take a bite. To my absolute delight, it’s amazing. Coupled with Ender’s fries and sauce, it’s definitely something I want to make again.
“Oh, my goodness. Try this,” I say and shove the food his way.
He takes a bite and his eyes roll back. “See, I told you we could do it. I’m so proud of you.”
He’s proud of me. I realize those words are something I needed to hear, something I’ve been craving for a long time. It makes my whole body light, and I can’t help but hug him, sweat and all. I slink my arms around his waist and squeeze him as hard as I can.
Ender crashes his arms around me and rests his cheek on the crown of my head. His body relaxes and he breathes out, long and low. “I’ve needed hugs like yours for so long, you have no idea.”
My heart lightens further. Knowing I’ve helped him in some small way, regardless of how the competition ends, makes me happy. The Langley family deserves a break, and I pray that the results will be one huge break for them.
It only occurs to me now that a lot of people probably saw him kiss me. I shouldn’t be embarrassed, but I am. We kissed on live television, for goodness’ sake!
“Are you okay?” he asks, pulling me back so he can take me in. I nod. “Good. Have I mentioned you look amazing in Timberwolves green?”
I look down at my dress and notice it’s several shades darker than his jersey. “Not exactly Timberwolves green.”
“No? I guess not. Maybe I was just imagining you wearing a jersey with my number on it at every game. What do you—”
“Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention please, we’re ready to announce the winning line-up for the Thirtieth Annual Bay Bridge Cook-Off!” The announcer interrupts Ender just when I think he’s about to perfectly define what he wants from me. I want to be annoyed, but I also want the results of the competition so I can finally relax one way or another.
Ender grasps my hand and I take a deep breath. Lori, who graciously traded ingredients with us, winks at me over her shoulder. I recognize her as the sweet woman who offered to take me to the hospital when I fed Ender peanut oil. If we don’t win, I pray it’s her instead.
“In third place, with a fantastic pulled pork barbecue plate, Connie Alexis and Susan Marin!” The crowd cheers as the ladies hug and grin ear to ear. Third place is still a great prize, but I have my eyes on number one. My stomach twists as we wait patiently for the crowd to quiet so the announcer can crown the second-place winner.
