A Taste for Love Page 23

  He turns to Mrs. Lee. “Do you have a recipe we can use?”

  “I’m afraid not. They’re all trade secrets, so we keep the only copies in a safe back at my New York headquarters.”

  I rack my brain for a solution. There has to be something we can do. My head snaps up.

  “What if we reverse the bake order today?”

  Every pair of eyes in the room zeroes in on me. Dad is the first to speak.

  “What did you say?”

  “What if we have the contestants do the highlight before the technical?” I say with the slightest tremor in my voice. “That would give us time to either find the book or come up with a new recipe.”

  “That’s brilliant!” Chef Anthony crows. “What do you think, Mrs. Yang?”

  Mom stares at me like I’ve got something on my face but says nothing.

  “I think that’s a great idea,” Mrs. Lee fills in. “Let’s do it.”

  “Then we should head to the bakeshop and get started,” our host answers.

  We trek there as a group, but pause outside as Chef Anthony whispers instructions to his culinary students. As they scurry in and start trading out the ingredients at the stations, he walks into the bakeshop with his brightest smile.

  “Welcome, everyone, to day three of the Fifth Annual Yin and Yang Junior Baking Competition. I know we got off to a rough start this morning, so the judges thought it might be fun to shake things up a little bit. Bakers, you will be starting with your highlights today.”

  Confusion spreads through the room, igniting mumbles and whispers from the audience already seated along the wall. Chef Anthony continues without pause.

  “Why don’t we bring in our esteemed judges? First up is the generous and talented Mrs. Yang of Yin and Yang Restaurant and Bakery!”

  When Mom is summoned, she treads in looking stiff and uncomfortable. Mrs. Lee is introduced next, and she puts everyone at ease with a clever joke. I’m the last to be brought into the room, and nerves hit me just before I step inside.

  “Our last judge has experience both in front of and behind a baking station. Please help me welcome back Miss Liza Yang!”

  Some light applause accompanies my entrance. I take my spot next to the other two judges, consciously avoiding the right side of the room. Mrs. Lee takes a minute to look every contestant in the face before speaking.

  “Today’s theme is bread, so knead that dough, heat up that oven, and roll up your sleeves. You have three hours, beginning now!”

  There’s a moment where no one moves, as if Medusa herself has rendered them all stone. Sammy is the first to break the spell, dumping some flour out of his jar and sifting it into his mixing bowl. Over the next few minutes, the rest of the contestants join in, but the mood in the room is somber. Dad waves me over to him.

  “I’m going to go home and look for the recipe book. Keep an eye on Mom, okay?”

  He sneaks out while Mom’s looking the other way. I ease into his seat and cross my fingers. Hopefully, he’ll bring good news back. About thirty minutes into the bake, I feel my phone go off in my pocket. Two words pop up on the screen.

  No book.

  I swallow a litany of curses as I raise my head to find Mom staring expectantly at me. Her shoulders slump as I shake my head imperceptibly. My heart aches for her. Just like The Great British Baking Show, bread day is the trickiest to pull off. Without a clearly written recipe and properly measured ingredients, the bakers won’t have a chance to get it right. If today doesn’t go as planned, the contest could end here and now. As much as I hate the fact that Mom used the contest to find me a boyfriend, I don’t want her to be publicly humiliated.

  That’s when the idea comes to me. It’s tantalizing but also downright terrifying.

  It might also get me grounded for the rest of my natural life.

  Perfect.

  I make my way to Mom’s side and lean down to whisper in her ear.

  “Can you come outside with me for a minute? I want to talk to you.”

  “Why?” she asks in a tired voice.

  “Please. Just trust me.”

  Mom excuses herself and follows me into the hallway. My heart pounds loudly in my ears, and the hem of my shirt is bunched in my fists. I rush into speech, afraid I’ll lose the courage otherwise.

  “Mom, I want you to let me come up with the technical recipe.”

  “Liza, I don’t think—”

  “Please, Mom. I can do this,” I tell her. “I won’t let you down. I know how important the contest is to you.”

  My words echo through the empty corridor. Mom says nothing, staring at me with an unreadable expression. As the seconds fall away, so does my confidence. So much for not letting anyone steal my shot. I stare down at the ground.

  “Okay.”

  My eyes bounce back up to her face. “What?”

  “I said okay. I’ll let you try.”

  Am I dreaming? I reach down and pinch myself. Ow! Shock gives way to a smile so big my cheeks hurt from the effort. This is really happening. I mean, maybe Mom’s only agreeing because she’s desperate and figures things can’t get worse, but I don’t care. I throw my arms around her and give her the biggest hug. She pats me awkwardly on the back until I let her go.

  “This isn’t a game, Liza. I hope you’re really taking this seriously.”

  “I am! I am!”

  “And I get final say on the recipe. If it’s not good enough, then we won’t use it.” She checks her watch. “I need to get back inside for the judging.”

  “I’ll start working on the recipe right now.”

  She heads inside, and I run back to the break room. I know exactly what I’m going to do, and I text Dad to stop by the grocery store on the way back to pick up what we need. Then I go in search of Gloria and her fellow students. I find them sitting in the cafeteria, playing a board game. Gloria lets me into Chef Anthony’s office so I can type out and print eight copies of my recipe. I thank her for her help and head back to the prep room. Dad’s waiting inside, and he looks at me with a puzzled expression.

  “Did you get everything?”

  He nods. “Yes, but why does Mom need all these things?”

  “She doesn’t. It’s for my technical recipe.”

  He stares at me with surprise. “You’re doing the technical? Does Mom know about this?”

  “Yeah. I talked to her about it earlier.”

  With the recipe copies in hand, we walk to the bakeshop together. I hear Mom and Mrs. Lee critiquing James’s bread, and what I hear startles me.

  “I have to admit, James,” Mrs. Lee says. “This is an off day for you. You overworked the dough, then underbaked it.”

  “The flavor is good,” Mom adds, “but not as nuanced as your usual bakes.”

  I don’t hear his reply. It’s likely he doesn’t give one. With the final highlight judged, Chef Anthony announces the lunch break. People file out of the room, murmuring about the surprising turnout for this morning’s bake. Sarah and Edward walk out together, their hands brushing against each other. She and I share a quick smile as they continue down the hall.

  Ben and James trail out last, and the latter’s eyes flit over me as he passes. I keep mine on the papers in my hand until they’re gone. Dad and I then enter the room with everything in tow. Mom and Jeannie are there, along with Mrs. Lee.

  I hand the papers over to Mom for inspection with shaky hands. Dad pats my shoulder as her eyes flit quickly across the paper. When she looks up and nods, the tension inside me cracks like a fried wonton, and I finally exhale.

  Mrs. Lee raises an eyebrow. “What’s this?”

  “Our technical recipe,” Mom explains. “Liza’s going to take the lead on this one.”

  “I know we’re short on time, but are you sure this is a good idea?”

  A faint smi
le appears on Mom’s face, and I stand a little taller.

  “Yes. I have full confidence in her.”

  “Okay, then,” Mrs. Lee utters with surprising ease. “What can I do to help?”

  “If you could put a copy of this recipe on each workstation,” I explain, “we’ll work on measuring everything out.”

  She accepts the pile of papers, eyes skimming over what I’ve written down.

  “You came up with this recipe on your own?”

  “Technically, it’s one we use at the bakery, but I made some changes.”

  Mrs. Lee peers at Mom. “Your daughter is very talented.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  I bask in the rare compliment for a second before getting back down to business. Placing one copy of the recipe on the nearest workstation, I set up an assembly line of ingredients and measuring tools.

  “Mom, please measure out the bread flour. Dad, you’ve got the sugar, salt, and yeast. Jeannie, if you could help out with the water and milk, that would be great. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  When each batch is complete, we transfer it to an open workstation. Once we’re done, we remove the extra ingredients and repackage them. The contestants stroll back in right as we’re putting everything aside. Mom tips her head toward our host.

  “We’re ready when you are, Chef Anthony.”

  “Great! Let’s do this.”

  His booming voice interrupts the various side conversations and brings silence back into the room.

  “Contestants, it’s time now for your technical challenge for bread day. Mrs. Yang—”

  “Actually, since this is one of Liza’s recipes, she’ll give the instructions.”

  “Oh! My apologies.” He tips his head toward me. “In that case, the floor is yours.”

  With all eyes now on me, I step into the spotlight.

  Chapter 23

  “Contestants, today you will be baking Hokkaido milk bread, otherwise known as shokupan. This popular Japanese bread is made using the tangzhong roux method, which gives it a light and fluffy texture. The recipe you’re working with also incorporates orange zest and ginger, so remember to balance those flavors. You have one and a half hours. Good luck.”

  I wait until the bakers have begun working on their recipes before sagging against the display table. The adrenaline that kept my voice steady seeps out of my system, leaving behind shaky hands and weak knees. I manage to escape to the hallway and collapse into a chair. A wave of sweat suddenly takes hold, but the cool wall grants me reprieve as I lean against it.

  Mom steps out a moment later, and she puts a hand on my forehead with concern.

  “You don’t look so good. Are you coming down with something?”

  I gently move her hand away. “I’m fine, Mom. Just tired.”

  “Were you up talking to Grace again? What could be so important at that time of night?”

  “Noth—” I stop myself. “Her heart’s been broken, and she needed someone to talk to.”

  “And what do you know about a broken heart?”

  Her tone is sharp, but not condescending. Rather, it’s threaded with worry, and for a second, I’m tempted to tell her the truth about everything. Ultimately, I keep things vague.

  “A heart can be broken in lots of ways. I don’t have to feel exactly the same to sympathize.”

  “You can do that without staying up all night,” Mom chides, “but I know you’re trying to be a good friend.”

  It’s a small acknowledgment, but it’s enough.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  She tsks. “Can you tell her to get upset during the day, though? You need to sleep.”

  “Mom!”

  She says it with such a straight face I almost take her seriously. I roll my eyes but chuckle along with her. It’s a nice change from yelling at each other.

  “You picked a very good technical,” Mom comments a little while later, her eyes flicking to the open doorway. “Milk bread is easy to get wrong.”

  “Well, I figured this was the best way to find out who’s going to rise to the occasion.”

  I can see the wheels turning in her head, and then her eyebrows shoot up.

  “You’re quite funny, you know?”

  I chuckle. “Are you surprised?”

  “Actually, no. Jeannie’s always been the quieter one. Too serious, I think. You’re full of life.”

  I’ve never heard anyone describe me this way before, much less my own mother. It’s jarring to hear her say it without a hint of criticism.

  “That’s why I worry about you. You want so much, so fast. You need to slow down.”

  And . . . she’s back. I was starting to think she’d hit her head or something.

  Mom regards me with a slight frown. “Your dad says I’ve been too hard on you. That I hurt you when I compare you to Jeannie. Is this true?”

  Not trusting myself to speak, I stare down the corridor and nod. She exhales deeply.

  “I only ever wanted the best for you—for both of you. You might not believe it, but I worry about Jeannie too.”

  I turn back to her. “You do?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then why are you always after me?” I ask, picking at a loose thread on my shorts.

  “Because I’m preparing you for the road ahead. Jeannie sticks to what she knows, but you like to dream big. That means life is going to be harder for you. You have to learn to take the falls and get right back up.”

  “It doesn’t mean you have to do the shoving.”

  I slap a hand over my mouth. I didn’t mean to say that out loud. Mom stares hard at me then, but she nods.

  “Okay. I’ll try. But only if you promise to listen to me more.”

  Did we just have a heart-to-heart like I see on TV? The one where the mom hugs her daughter to the swell of touching music? I twist toward Mom with an expectant smile, my ears perked for the sound of a faint melody.

  She recoils in her seat. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Right. So much for that idea. I make a show of adjusting my shirt.

  “Nothing.”

  She shifts her attention to a spot on the wall across from us. The sunlight streaming in from the windows highlight lines and wrinkles I’ve never noticed before. Bags have taken up permanent residence beneath her eyes, a sign of the stress she’s endured.

  Most people would have closed up shop or delegated their work while hosting this contest. Mom has kept the bakery running like normal except the nights before competition rounds. On those days, she’s in the kitchen preparing for the next day.

  “I’m sorry the contest didn’t go as planned this year,” I say.

  She pats me on the arm. “It’s my own fault. I didn’t screen the contestants as carefully as I usually do.”

  “Because you were trying to set me up with one of them?”

  Once again, the words slip past before I can stop them. I haven’t confronted her again since the night I came home late. Her hand stills, but she twists in her chair to face me.

  “You never see the good in yourself, Liza. You only try to be like everyone else, to be more American, to date outside your race. I wanted you to be proud of your own culture. To know there’s nothing wrong with dating someone of your own background.”

  I feel a sudden lump in my throat. She thinks I’m ashamed of myself. But that’s not true. I mean, hell, I was kissing an Asian boy just the other day.

  The memory sends my thoughts in a completely new direction, one I was not prepared to visit just yet, and my chest tightens. I shove it back into the dark corner I relegated it to before.

  “I know who I am, Mom, and I’m proud of it. All of it.”

  She frowns. “Then why won’t you give the boys I bring around a chance?”

  “Because you o
nly pick them based on your criteria! I’m the one who has to date them, and you’ve never asked me once what I like or want.”

  “What you want isn’t always what you need, Liza. You’re not old enough to understand that.”

  “Maybe, but I am old enough to know what makes me happy, and that’s getting to choose who I date,” I insist, pulling my hand away. “I need to learn for myself what’s right and wrong for me. Isn’t that what you want for me too?”

  For once, Mom’s staring at me like she’s really seeing me. She draws a breath, but Chef Anthony sticks his head out.

  “Fifteen-minute warning, ladies.”

  We stand up to stretch our legs, and I lean a shoulder against the wall.

  “Is there at least one boy in there you would date?” Mom asks softly.

  There was. But he turned out to be worse than all the others.

  “I don’t know,” I mumble, scratching my ear. “I haven’t exactly gotten to know any of them that well.”

  “Not even James or Ben? That’s who you were out with that night, right?”

  I know she won’t let it go if I don’t say something, so I lie.

  “We spent most of it eating and talking about random things.”

  And taking a moonlit walk. And holding hands.

  “Shut up,” I mutter to myself.

  “What did you say?”

  “Uh, just that it’s time to go in.”

  I lead us back into the room, and five completely different breads greet us on the table. Some are weirdly shaped, and others are dry or soggy. To be honest, none of them look appetizing. Nonetheless, we slice two pieces from each for judging, and Mom sticks to her promise to let me do all the talking.

  “This one wasn’t proofed for long enough. That’s why there’s not a good rise.”

  “Whoever baked this one left it in too long. It’s burnt.”

  “There’s no orange or ginger in this one. Not sure what happened.”

  “Oh! Too much ginger. It overwhelms the other flavors.”

  “We can’t eat this one. The dough is raw in the middle.”