Page 174 of Never Let You Go

Any other time, I would have done something different. But, today, now, this is where my baker’s heart is.

The first two days here, I was laser-focused on what was expected from me. I’d shoved all thoughts of Alexandra aside. But, when that bullshit assignment came in last night, I knew there was no point trying to comprehend what the judges wanted.

One word kept coming back to me: pancakes.

I decided to follow my instinct. My heart.

Baking is about community and love. It’s about making people feel good and bringing them around a table.

If the judges don’t like my interpretation, then so be it.

I’m proud of what I did, and that’s all that counts.

Here we go. I look at the judges, one after the other.

“When the people you love are gone, what remains are memories. And one of the best ways to rekindle these memories, is through food. So I made a pancake dinner. You might think pancakes are as American as apple pie, and you’d be right. But they exist, differently, in every culinary tradition. Pancakes are the ultimate soul food, made with simple ingredients, meant to bring a family together around the table, with recipes passed down from generation to generation. And if your recipe consists of a preferred mix, that’s fine too. As long as you use real maple syrup.” I pause for a beat, again looking at each of the judges. They’re wearing their skeptical faces. The hell with them if they don’t get me.

“I know that might seem simplistic, but simplicity is what’s lacking in our society. And also, at the risk of contradicting myself, pancakes can be quite sophisticated, if that’s what you’re going for. In any case, whether you want to remain down-to-earth or are going for something more elevated, pancakes will always call to our sensory memories, those created early on in our childhood. For me, they will always be associated with love. And for the viewers out there, here’s the takeaway: If you want to tell people you love them, make them pancakes.”

Justin pushes himself from the reception desk and marches toward us, hauling his carry-on. “Let’s get the fuck out of this fucking place,” he barks.

Okay.

“’Bout time,” Colton mumbles as we follow him to the parking lot.

We throw our bags in the truck bed, Colton flicks the truck doors open, and Justin folds himself in the back seat.

“Good call,” Colton says under his breath as he takes the driver’s seat.

After the show ended last night, we wanted to get back home, but couldn’t find Justin. There’d been a power outage, and word was that he might be stuck in an elevator, but he didn’t pick up his phone, and, anyway, power was eventually restored and still no sign of Justin. Colton and I crashed in a double, and in the morning, a very pissed off Justin showed up with no explanation, said he had business to tend to, and started a half-hour long argument with the front desk, the gist of which we had no clue and gave no fucks.

We just wanted to get home, and he was being a diva.

Colton finally breaks the silence. “That was brilliant, man, what you did. I didn’t know you could make so many dishes with pancakes.”

“Thanks,” I answer simply. I blew the judges’ minds with my sourdough pancake batter base, interpreted both sweet and savory to form the basis of a whole meal. Blinis and smoked Vermont trout with a side of whipped cream and freshly picked garlic scapes, cheddar soufflé pancakes, chocolate silver dollar size pancakes with a side of ginger ice cream, and the proposal pancake—a hibiscus pancake topped with pansies holding an engagement ring.

“If anybody would know that, it’d be you. Proud o’ya.”

I tilt my chin toward Justin. “What happened to him?”

“Hell if I know.”

After a while driving in silence, Colton says, “So, Alex, huh.”

Last thing I want to talk about.

“I had someone that sweet look at me the way she looks at you, I wouldn’t let her go that easy. Wouldn’t matter she didn’t fully disclose her circumstances.”

“Yeah?” I don’t want to argue with Colton.

He shrugs. “Not telling you what to do. Not in your shoes. Just saying, that’s what I’d do.”

I keep staring out the window. My cousin usually doesn’t speak much.

“She and Grace’re tight. See her at Ma’s sometimes.”

Right. He’s been around Alexandra more than I thought. He understands.

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