Abby

Duck. Pork. A flaky 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.

Enter title…

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

when I was much younger…

school, the

compete in a style

minus the sky-high stakes and the television

around our stainless steel tables, dressed in

as our professor—Chef Andrews—paced back and

announcing our task for

announced, “you will be preparing beef

expect

the techniques we have been practicing all

action, I felt my

of me, but my mind

as beef

that moment, it felt as though someone

my mind clean.

couldn’t remember

of me felt foreign, and I felt

on the task just fine, dicing,

they were born with a skillet in their hand.

guy who treated every class like

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