With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
Winter Dinner
It’s the afternoon of Monday, December 9, and Schomburg Charter High School is quiet as the last of the students leave. The only people still in the building are the teachers finalizing their grading, and the custodians setting up tables and chairs in the gym. In about two hours the school will reopen for the public to come enjoy the Winter Dinner. But in our small part of the building, game time is right now.
“All right, class! Tonight is the big night. People have paid money to be here in our fancy gymnasium, and we are almost sold out. The basketball team even rescheduled a game so we could use this space, and Principal Holderness has invited folks from the superintendent’s office. Black Thought from the Roots retweeted a post and over a hundred people from the community have bought tickets. We did everything we could to have people show up, but now we have to show out.”
It’s almost like a mini prom. We’ve wheeled in the long tables from the cafeteria and covered them with cloth (it turns out Angelica’s fabrics did not go to waste!). We have little Christmas lights set up throughout the entranceway to give the room a nice winter-night effect. The basketball hoops have been pushed back and the score screens are covered with the menu printed on large poster paper. And each of us is in our clean uniform, our caps pinned on tight. It’s not some swanky rooftop affair, but damn if it ain’t good for being a high school gym transformation in less than two weeks.
I tune back in to Chef’s speech. “They’re ready to be wined and dined. Well not wined, that’d be illegal. Make it good, follow orders. Each group knows what they’re in charge of, right? Any menu questions can be directed at Emoni or me. Follow the recipes precisely. I got them down to the last grain of salt.” Chef gives me a look.
The whole class nods at Chef. I don’t know about anyone else, but it feels like even my butterflies have butterflies in their bellies. Next to me, Malachi hums Meek to himself. Without thinking, I take his hand and give it a light squeeze. He squeezes back and my nerves die down a bit. Although now my hand is tingling where we touched. I can’t win!
Everyone jumps to their stations and I meet Richard and Amanda at ours. We’re in charge of assembling spoonfuls of sweet-potato casserole but with a Spanish twist. That was my idea, a Southern holiday meal meets a twist of southern Spain. Most of the hors d’oeuvres were prepared beforehand so we just need to get them in the oven and put on the finishing garnishes. I begin scooping sweet-potato casserole onto ceramic serving spoons while Richard garnishes them with sugared walnuts and Spanish sausage. Three months ago, most of us had never even tried Spanish cuisine, and today we’re hosting a semi-Spanish-themed banquet.
We work like machines. I spoon and pass the bite to my left. Richard adds walnuts and sausage, and passes the plate. Amanda adds parsley and cleans the plate. Chili aioli would make this bomb. A sweet and savory bite. I almost walk to the spice cabinet, then stop myself.
That’s not the recipe.
We make trays and trays of food; some are set forward for the students who will begin serving. These are the skewers of winter veggies and single-serve portions of herbed stuffing with jamón ibérico—the less hearty bites. While the first course is being distributed the rest of us begin wiping down our stations. Our mini bites of sweet potato and mac and cheese will be going out next.
The night moves as chaotically and quickly as Angelica when she torpedoes into a room. Before I know it, the last course, individual apple pies, has gone out, and the only thing left to do is to file out and a take a bow.
It feels strange to leave the kitchen. As if I’m naked. Every recipe that went out had my thumbprint on it, and whether people enjoyed the meal falls on me.