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  That challenge was Raina.

  *

  The group of us, all 17 chefs, filed into the Hot Chef kitchen for the very first time. We had only met an hour prior backstage, sitting around introducing ourselves, bragging of our accomplishments. The kitchen was a television set just like you’d expect. The back wall lined with stainless steel appliances, the cooking stations bisecting the stage, the large food pantry and refrigerators in back. Looking out from where we stood was just black studio space, complete with cameras and all the various crew members who worked on the show. The lights shining down from the rafters were warm and bright and even though we were most certainly in a working kitchen, it just didn’t feel like a kitchen. It was something else entirely.

  “One more time,” said Dale Porter, one of the shows producers and someone we would all come to know well. He was in his 40s, thinning hair slicked back, looked kind of ratlike. “I want to get one more shot of the chefs walking in. Chefs,” he said, addressing us. “Don’t look so stiff. Relax, have fun, smile.” With that, Dale put on a big cheesy smile. “And this time we’re going to roll. Pema and Tim will be coming out, okay?” When Dale said this, the entire group of chefs sucked the air out of the room.

  As we all started to turn around to do our walkout one more time, Dale reached out and grabbed a young, pretty-looking girl from the line. She had slight features, innocent, she almost looked as though she were an elf. Her chef uniform fit her just a tad bit too big.

  “You,” said Dale. “What’s your name?”

  “Raina,” she said softly, pushing a finger through a tendril of her fine light brown hair, tucking it behind her ear. This girl was endearingly meek, so heartbreakingly cute, and the kind of girl you knew just wasn’t going to make it very far in this difficult competition.

  “Raina,” repeated Dale. “You’re cute. I want you walking out first. All right?”

  “Okay,” she said.

  With this direction, a couple of the other chefs scoffed. They had spent their careers under the impression that what mattered most was the food on the plate. But here in TV land, production wanted the cute girl up front.

  We all stood backstage, trying to settle our nerves as we knew we were about to meet Pema and Tim for the first time. Raina stood up front, looking down at her small feet, waiting for her cue. I was somewhere in back, peeking down the line, feeling my heart race. It was really happening. This was the very first scene for us filming the latest season of Hot Chef.

  Dale stood with us, looking out onto the stage, adjusting a headset over his ears, waiting for the director’s signal. He looked over to Raina and grinned.

  “I think you’re going to do good,” he said matter-of-factly. “Just listen to me.”

  Raina gave him a bit of a confused look. Her pale face scrunched slightly and her light pink lips pursed.

  “All right,” said Dale loudly, addressing us all. “We’re rolling. Look alive. Loosen up. This is it.”

  Raina just stood there, front of the line, feet planted.

  “Okay Raina,” said Dale, giving her back a light push. “Let’s do it.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Raina, beginning her walk. The rest of us followed behind her.

  This time, as we walked on stage, considering Dale’s direction to ease up, we were all flabbergasted to see Pema waiting for us off to one side. And standing next to her was Tim Cicerone. The two of them grinned widely as we entered, each one of us unable to suppress our giddiness. I looked around the kitchen as I entered, as if really seeing it for the first time. This was real. This was really happening. There were three stationary cameras pointed at us as well as a handful of cameramen walking around the set, capturing shots of us.

  We lined up on one side of the stage, as we had been instructed, all of us immensely excited for the competition to come. Leaning out, I looked down the collection of chefs, taking in the reality of the entire thing. My eyes caught suddenly with Raina’s, causing both of us to look away and back toward Tim and Pema.

  “Hello chefs,” said Tim. He offered us a knowing smile. He’d been in this position many times before. “We’re happy to welcome you to the Hot Chef kitchen for the very first time. Next to me is a woman who really needs no introduction. Pema?” he said, turning to Pema to let her have the reigns.

  “Chefs, we are thrilled to have you all here on Season 15 of Hot Chef in the midwestern home of fabulous American cuisine… Chicago!” said Pema, offering us a clap to incite a bit of enthusiasm out of us. We all cheered and hooted and applauded.

  “As I’m sure you’ve all discovered about each other by now,” continued Tim. “We’ve got an amazing collection of culinary talent this year and it’s going to make for some pretty intense competition. A lot of Michelin Stars and James Beard Awards in this room right now.”

  We all looked around at each other, summing up our competition.

  “But don’t let all the talent blind you,” said Tim. “One mistake and you could be chopped at the Chop Block.”

  “Lucky for you chefs we have Rebound Kitchen,” interjected Pema.

  “Right,” said Tim. “All eliminated chefs will get one last shot in Rebound Kitchen. And the winner of Rebound Kitchen will get a crack at the finals. So keep your knives sharp.”

  “It’s going to be an amazing season,” said Pema. “And I think we should just get right to it with a Speed Chop.”

  “One thing, Pema,” said Tim. “This first Speed Chop is also going to be Cutthroat Challenge,” he said. “Which means one of the chefs standing here is going to be eliminated today.”

  When Tim said that I felt my stomach sink. All the other chefs looked frazzled and distraught. To come this far and be eliminated on the very first challenge, it would be so devastating.

  “For this Speed Chop,” continued Tim. “We want you to showcase not only skill, but also technique. Make sure all your cuts look good, your plating perfect. If you don’t show us an absolutely perfect dish, well, you just might be packing your bags before they’re even unpacked.”

  “Chefs,” said Pema, taking her cue. “There are no rules for this Speed Chop. You’ll have 30 minutes. We want to see a dish that defines you, a dish you love and can execute well. There are no limitations and you have full use of the Hot Chef pantry.”

  “Get ready, chefs,” said Tim. “Your time begins… now!”

  Tim brought his arm down to give us our cue, as Dale had told us he would, and everybody instantly went into crazy mode. The chefs were running around the kitchen, trying to pick a good cooking station to claim with their knives, and then we all ran off to the pantry to shore up our ingredients. At that point, the entire thing was a blur to me.

  When you have such a short amount of time to accomplish something that could make or break you, it’s easy to get tunnel vision. You simply focus and let yourself slip into autopilot. As past shows had shown us, we all knew that this first Speed Chop would be a free for all and had considered what we’d make before even stepping foot on the stage. I was making a snapper crudo with a tomato and caper salad. I had made it a thousand times before. I knew I wouldn’t make any mistakes in my execution.

  If you think 30 minutes goes by fast when you’re just standing around, to say it’s quick when doing a cooking challenge is an understatement. I couldn’t imagine what any of the other chefs were thinking because I didn’t even have time to consider that there were other chefs. Once Pema called time, I looked up from my station, saw everyone just standing behind their dishes, some smiling, some frowning, the nervousness in the room palpable. This was all going to be much more difficult than I thought.

  And before I could even think another thought, Tim and Pema were standing in front of me with mild smiles on their faces.

  “Hello,” said Tim. “And you are?”

  “Emily,” I said, feeling my hands shake. “It’s amazing to meet you, Chef,” I said to Tim with a nod. “And you, Pema.”

  “What have you prepared for us, Emily?
” asked Pema in an indolent tone.

  “I have prepared a Pacific snapper crudo with a caper, tomato, and pickled asparagus salad with a little bit of lime zest,” I said, finally feeling like I could let my breath out. Both Pema and Tim began picking at my dish, taking small bites.

  “A crudo, huh?” said Tim, his eyes looking up to me as he inspected my dish. “Do you think that’s playing it a little safe?”

  “Well, maybe,” I admitted. “But crudos always seem to win.” Tim gave me a little laugh.

  “Thank you, Emily,” said Pema with a smile. Neither of them let on how they felt about my dish at all.

  I knew I had done well. My crudo looked awesome. I was, in my mind, safe from elimination at the very least. All I could do was watch the rest of the chefs writhe when their turn to be judged came up.

  After Tim and Pema had tasted everyone’s dishes, they walked to the front and looked toward us. While the whole ordeal had taken less than an hour, I felt absolutely drained as I’m sure all the other chefs felt as well. It was a brand new experience having to compete like this and being face to face with your judges takes a lot out of you. It makes you question your own abilities. Like, am I good enough to be here? There were some pretty talented people in the room.

  “Chefs,” said Tim. “We asked you to give us a signature dish and we weren’t disappointed. There was a lot of skill, technique and ability shown here today. Pema, who were some of our favorites?”

  “Richard,” said Pema. Richard was a lanky guy with a bald head and big beard. As his name was called, he balled his hand into a fist and celebrated as another chef patted him on the back.

  “Richard,” said Tim. “We really loved your cucumber crab salad. The grapefruit really brightened it up and the uni elevated it. Who else, Pema?”

  “Emily,” said Pema.

  “What?” I blurted out. “Oh my God!” One of the chefs standing next to me, a guy named Jason, laughed, leaned in, and congratulated me.

  “Emily,” said Tim. “We worried you were playing it safe with your snapper crudo, but the taste was excellent, perfect presentation, we loved the hint of lime zest that just kicked it up a notch. It’s no wonder your restaurant has a Beard Award.”

  “Thank you, Chef,” I said, beaming.

  “And finally,” said Pema. “Raina.” I looked over across the room and saw Raina squeal with delight, her hands covering her mouth as she bent her knees just slightly. She had the cutest little excited face, such clear and fair skin. She was a doll.

  “Raina,” said Tim. “While everyone else highlighted a protein, you took a risk giving us roasted baby carrots with dates, brown butter, and pine nuts. It paid off. Just a superb dish. Really tasty.”

  “Great job everyone,” interjected Pema.

  “But we can only have one winner,” said Tim. “Pema?”

  “The chef who cooked our favorite dish was…” said Pema, her eyes surveying all three of us up for the win. The moment was pregnant with possibility. I felt myself quivering. “Raina,” Pema said evenly.

  Raina squealed again and the rest of the chefs applauded for her. She looked so amazingly happy. While I felt a bit let down that I didn’t win, I still knew that I wouldn’t be eliminated which was a relief. And seeing Raina’s excitement for her win was awesome. She seemed so unassuming, something naive in her face. It was cute.

  “Raina’s dish was risky,” said Tim. “But successful risk really pays off in this competition. If you think you can play it safe and skate through to the finale,” he said. “You’re in for a rude awakening.”

  “Congratulations Raina, you’ve won immunity for the next round,” said Pema, smiling over at Raina. “And now on to our least favorite dishes.”

  The rest of the chefs all reverted to fear. Nobody wanted to go home. The nervousness was evident.

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  AN EXCERPT FROM: DORMITORY DEAREST

  *

  I NEVER THOUGHT college would be this weird. I mean, I was really excited about it leading up to the big move but I didn’t really know what to expect apart from what you see in movies. None of my close friends, of which I had few, went to the same college as me so it was like I was going off on this new adventure all by myself. Nobody knew me, I could reinvent myself if I wanted, I could be a totally new person and carve out a completely different path if I so chose. But once I got to school, I found that I simply couldn’t help but be me. Geeky, introverted, freaky me.

  Nerdy Natasha. Lucky I ended up in the same small arts dorm with all the other nerdy outcasts and not in one of the huge student ghettos filled with roving bands of bleached bimbos looking for an easy target like me to sink their teeth into. No, as an English major I had been asked by some benevolent cosmic force if I would like to enroll in the residential college for Arts & Letters students and without even knowing much about the program I dutifully accepted. The program was called ALOHA, which stood for Arts & Letters Organized Housing Association, and it was a total lifesaver for a girl like me.

  My dorm was quite small, being one of the oldest dorm buildings on campus, and was only three floors high as opposed to some of those much larger skyscraper dorms that peppered the huge campus of my midwestern farm school. It was like we had our own little sanctuary where we could just be us. All kinds were welcome but it was an overwhelmingly geeky atmosphere. I liked that. But, if I’m being honest, I wasn’t prepared for the level of geekiness. Much different than high school. These students had much more passion. More spunk.

  The beauty about my dorm, Leopold Hall, was that the entire student population within its walls were ALOHA students. It really was like we were on some island. Some island for weirdos. Totally awesome.

  So when I say that I never thought college would be this weird, I mean weird in a good way. Strangely exciting. Different. Filled with possibility and acceptance and with very limited, if any, judgment from peers. We were all just there doing our own thing. English majors and writers like myself, theater students, visual artists, the outcast art crew. It was a terrific amalgam of my university’s creative contingent and it was nothing like I had anticipated. Utopia, almost.

  And the things that happened to me, well, I couldn’t have anticipated them either.

  Each floor of Leopold Hall housed a different year of ALOHA students. So the freshmen like me were on the first floor, sophomores on the second, and juniors on the third. The third floor was much smaller than the other two floors and was all single rooms, rather than the doubles that the freshman and sophomores got. And generally that was fine because by the third year many students drifted away from ALOHA. I could see that it was a good program to start out in, to help you get adjusted to college life, but by the time you’re a junior you want to live off campus, spread your wings and all that. The way the years were laid out in the dorm worked out swimmingly. Girls on one side of each floor, boys on the other.

  And my roommate, Whitney, was a blast.

  “You know what’s awesome?” asked Whitney, sitting on the couch under our lofted beds wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, her dirty blonde hair twisted up tightly into a bun. Whitney was an outgoing theater major and I was happy to have been paired with her.

  “What’s awesome?” I asked, sitting sideways in my desk chair, avoiding working on a paper for my English class.

  “I felt like, in high school, most boys wouldn’t even give me the time of day,” she said, something I found hard to believe considering she was a pretty girl with an affable personality. “But here in ALOHA, all these boys are totally creaming themselves over me.” I couldn’t help but laugh at her.

  “You’re a nut,” I said. Watching Whitney fuss with her hair, I couldn’t help but fuss with my own hair in mimic. While I was a natural redhead, freckled and all, I dyed my hair a more vibrant red because it made me feel fun. Following Whitney’s lead, I pushed my own hair up into a bun and tied it in place with a piece of elastic from around my wrist.

  “Wha
t?” she said innocently, stifling a grin.

  “I just don’t believe that you had trouble with boys,” I said. “You’re totally lying to me.”

  “Well…” said Whitney, looking off sheepishly. “Maybe it’s just that I’m getting more attention here at college. It’s skewing my memory.”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “I think I’m leaning toward Justin,” she mused, almost as though she were talking to herself. “He’s kinda beefy and brooding.”

  “Eh,” I said in an unimpressed tone. “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean?” said Whitney. “He’s cute. He’s got that James Dean thing going on. Tight white t-shirts,” she said, almost giggling.

  “You’re so damn girly,” I said. Even though I said this is a bit of a derogatory way, I actually loved how girly Whitney was. She kind of balanced me out. And I knew that she knew I didn’t mean anything by it.

  “And you could take some lessons!” retorted Whitney with a snort, crossing her arms. “If you don’t think Justin’s cute, who do you like over on the boys’ side?”

  “The boys’ side?” I asked, feeling a little put on the spot and cornered. “I mean, I don’t know.”

  “There’s a lot of nerds over there,” Whitney admitted. “Can’t tear a couple of those dudes from their computer games. But there are definitely some hotties. You can tell me, Natasha. Who are you sweet on?”

  “Whitney,” I groaned with embarrassment.

  “Tasha,” said Whitney, impatiently awaiting my answer.

  “I don’t know,” I reiterated.

  “Fine,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to,” I said, slightly acquiescing. “It’s that I don’t know. None of them, I think.”

  “What about Michael?” she asked. “He’s an English major, just like you. I like his long hair.”