~WC: 4.5k~
Yaya continued on like she hadn't just totally freaked me out, "I wouldn't recommend it. What they do on these reality tv shows is really, really wrong. They hire people like me to pick up the pieces because they know they're trying to break people. Ratings go up when contestants are agitated, stressed and especially when they argue."
"You don't think I can do it?" That's all I was hearing from her.
She pursed her full lips until they became flat. "We're going in circles here, Darius. I've yet to review the medical histories of the contestants but it's not about you. Any normal person operating under duress is bound to crack. You don't need that added stress in your life. No one does. And I remember you saying you find comfort in baking-"
"I do."
"So why would you want to make something that makes you feel comfortable and safe, into something stressful and anxiety inducing?"
I paused. "So, what am I supposed to do, Yaya? Just go back to Toronto?"
"My professional opinion? Yes, I think you should go back to Toronto and reevaluate the way you want to deal with your stressors. The solution is not to confront those things head on without any support and potentially poison something you find solace in. Darius, I thought we made so much more progress than this."
"Mindfulness and yoga doesn't work, okay?" I said sharply, feeling my temper rising. There weren't words for that in Twi so I started speaking in English, "I tried everything you said. I tried yoga, Pilates, journaling, going outside, talking to my friends, exercising more, exercising less, changing my routine, I joined that crochet club. None of it works and I still have panic attacks almost everyday."
"You didn't try everything, and you have to admit you've still improved, Darius. Your panic attacks are not as severe based on the last time I saw you. And there has been progress, even if you can't see it." She frowned, and ran a frustrated hand through her hair. "This is not an appropriate discussion. But, if you're bound and determined to be on the show then I'll be there as a resource to you. Even as a psychiatrist, we can still talk about strategies. But, as a friend...I'm worried. If this show is some effort to prove you can beat the odds—"
"Why does there have to be some big reason?" I said, "I want to be on the show, Yaya. I want to be challenged with my baking. I want to win. I've watched all the seasons, I'm in the best place in my life that I've ever been in, which isn't really saying a lot, but, I want this enough to put myself out there. Even if it's hard. Why shouldn't I be allowed to test my baking abilities just because I've got a brain that's constantly on edge?"
She gave me a long look, but eventually the frown eased on her face. "Okay, Darius. I understand. And if you're committed, then I'll try to be there for you in whatever capacity I can."
The rest of the flight was spent in silence and I was suddenly too on edge to relax. Yaya tried to make conversation but I told her I was tired, drew up the partition, and put on some high quality headphones to drown out the noise of my mind.
You didn't try everything, Yaya had said.
And that was true, I hadn't. The idea of being reliant on mediation for the rest of my life just to be normal or almost normal was anxiety inducing in and of itself. I didn't want to rely on a crutch like that. For other people it was different, it made sense to me because a type one deiabetic not using insulin because they were "stronger" than their disease sounded suicidal and foolish. Mental illness was the same thing. Medication could offer a better quality of life, and who did I think I was, that I wasn't even willing to try that?
But, I just couldn't do it. Maybe I had a fucked up brain with an imbalanced neurochemistry but if there was a way to handle it without medication that's what I would choose every time. It wasn't a debate for me, I'd never feel comfortable being on meds. Maybe it's because I was raised by people who barely even believed in mental illness and being gay was one thing but being medicated was another.
My breaths started to come short and I took off my headphones because I started to feel claustrophobic. I heard Yaya pull down the partition and start speaking to me in a soft, and slow voice. It wouldn't be the first time I'd had a panic attack in front of her.
"Baako, mmienu, mmiɛnsa," she paused before we continued counting in Twi together, "ɛnan, enum, nsia, nson, nwɔtwe, nkron."
I felt like I could breathe again and I said the last number, "ten." I swallowed loudly and Yaya patted me on the back.
"Counting works for you, so you should continue doing it. Instead of berating you, I'll try to offer advice. I helped out on the show last season. Do you have a paper and a pencil? Let's write down some ways to prepare you for what's up ahead. I'm rooting for you."
#
"Wow, you're even taller in real life." The man in front of me shook my hand for a few too many seconds before introducing himself as Richard Price; one of the producers for the show. Yaya and I had gotten picked up by the same black escalade and driven to the performance venue for the show. We were apparently the last to arrive and as soon as we got to the premises Yaya had been carted off to be with the other on site mental health professionals, and I had been guided straight towards a producer, and now my luggage lay abandoned in one corner.
I laughed awkwardly at the comment, because I didn't know what else to do when someone brought up my height. By now I should've had something to say and yet I didn't. It was also just awkward and a small corner of my mind would think, that's all anyone sees when they look at you.
The way he looked at me only confirmed it. It was like my height, my size and my blackness were personality traits all on their own. Throughout my childhood and well into my adulthood I could tell just by someone's tone of voice if they were going to judge me solely for that. It was disappointing but not exactly shocking.
Richard Price was a middle aged white man with salt and pepper hair, dressed in slacks and a loose button down shirt. The first few buttons were undone and considering his age he was in great shape. He had that buffed out, botox imbued appearance that I recognized in Hollywood types.
The producer began by showing me around the state of the art kitchen facilities we would be using. Every station had a gleaming countertop, a stove, oven, sink, and other amenities I didn't have the time to get to know. The brands were ones I'd never be able to afford and there were even equipments I'd never used before. It was intimidating but somehow exciting.
—these are what the master chef stations look like for reference—
The room itself was also massive. I didn't know what it used to be but it had large, swooping ceilings, an indoor balcony that ran around the entirety of the space, a high table where I expected the judges to stay, and then he showed me the pantry.
It was a chilled space with a huge variety of produce on display. The colours were so bright Vegetables didn't exactly have an amazing shelf life and I turned to Richard. "Doesn't everything start sometime next week? Won't some of these go bad?"
Richard frowned. "Well, spoiler alert...We start today, and for some reason even though you were one of the closest you were the last person to arrive. Everyone else has already met and they're getting acquainted. You don't have time to drop off your bags at the penthouse so we'll bring you over to meet them. I'm just supposed to give you the tour first thing."
The producer eventually lead me to a big reception area where I saw what looked like other contestants snacking on decadent foods all on a large table. The table had beverages, finger foods, and magnificent pastries. Some pastries I only saw in high end baking stores like a croquembouche, a Belgian chocolate cake, macarons and even eclairs. Everyone was sort of lingering about but I was more focused on getting a look at the desserts.
I walked by a table and took a large plate. Who had made all this? Then I remembered in my online research that there had to be some testing crew somewhere who actually made all this stuff. Everything looked and smelled amazing. I gave myself a generous slice of rain forest cake and the layers were even and the icing was spread perfectly proportionately.
I started to add a few other treats to my plate that I knew I couldn't normally afford before I felt a tap on my back.
I turned around only to be greeted by a group of almost two dozen people.
"Uh—Hi, I'm Darius." I said quickly, realizing the first thing I should have done was introduce myself.
One woman blinked. She looked like a stay at home mom with her little off-blonde bob, and her cardigan. She reminded me of women who fully embraced motherhood and decided to start dressing decades older than necessary. Her name tag said 'Mary Lou' and she looked like she was in her thirties.
Mary Lou stuck out a pale manicured hand. "Nice to meet you. You seem like the last one here. Where are you from?" Her southern twang stood out and it surprised me. Being Canadian, I wasn't at all used to the roundness of an American southern accent.
"Uh, I'm from Toronto, Canada." There were a few oohs and ahhs at that and even a Canadian, eh? muttered under someone's breath.
"Ah, well, I'm from Austin, sugar. You're a tall glass of water that's for sure. You're really a baker?" She looked a little sceptical. "You must've been churning a lot of butter."
I laughed. Yep, comments on my size right out of the gate. Of course. "Well, I mean...I guess I do a lot of churning." No one laughed with me and I felt myself start to sweat. Way too many faces. "Well, let's continue with introductions?"
We went around in a circle and the other people started to introduce themselves. I could already see how we would be type cast. The stay at home mom, the single mom, even a single dad, the young straight out of high school contestant, the person who seemed like they had maybe a little too much experience to be on an amateur show, the model, and the list went on. I wondered what I was. Looking around the room I realized I was the black guy.
Great. The box had been checked.
As for diversity there were a few white Latinos, two Asian people, one South Asian looking woman wearing a hijab, a black grandma lady, a couple people who had ethnically ambiguous smeared across their faces, me, and a Middle Eastern person. Those of us who were POC, made up about a third of the contestants. That felt like a lot, even if there were only about eight of us.
People liked to pretend race didn't inform the way they interacted with others but I could see people gravitating towards one another in little pockets. The moms, the guys, the young attractive people and the outcasts all broke off. Baking connected us but other things pulled us further apart.
After the brief introductions I was sort of alone, munching away on food and feeling my anxiety burst under my skin. No one had to know I was feeling anxious. It would be better if they thought I was standoffish. I thought I'd spend the reception party alone until a few more people approached me.
There was one sort of slender guy who seemed a little too interested in what I had to say and I pegged him as gay. I politely extricated myself from that potential mess and found an ally in woman who was just about my age. She had cool snake tattoos that slithered up her arms and had an interesting accent. Australian or maybe British?
She was the first person I felt like I was clicking with. Coincidentally, Ai was Japanese though she'd lived in the UK for the past decade. I explained how I was a child of West African immigrants but I was born and raised in Canada, and she nodded politely. We talked about baking and she enjoyed savoury dishes and I admitted I liked sweet.
Ai was nice and calm. She reminded me of a blend between Trace and Manny, and I felt comforted by her presence. Well, my definition of nice and calm was directness edging into bluntness. Some people could consider it being crass or rude but I was drawn to straightforward people.
"I hear a couple of us will have to share rooms. I don't mind bunking up if you don't." Her voice was so cool, I didn't catch it at first.
"I mean I'm a guy— and you're—" I looked at her eyes and stopped speaking when I realized she was staring straight at me. Her gaze was so direct she may as well have been looking through me.
"I'm not into men and you're not into women so I think we're good." She gave me a soft smile, looking right up at me.
Oh shit, she knew. How did she know?
I laughed self consciously. "Am I that obvious?"
"No, not at all. I've just got a hell of a gaydar. And het guys tend to look at women a little differently. Sort of—" she squinted as a fine line appeared between her delicate brows. "Like, if they wouldn't sleep with you then they treat you differently. You're not like that so I figured...you can't be straight."
Wow, I'd never thought of it like that. My gaydar wasn't nearly as well established, and I never thought of it that deeply. I looked back down at Ai and her glance was knowing. It was then I decided I liked her.
"Hmm, so what can you tell me about the people around the room? Since you seem so perceptive,"I said.
Ai took a swift look around. "They're intimidated by you."
I turned to her. "Huh?"
"Well, you walked in pretty confidently. Went straight to the table to eat, ignored the way half those women flirted with you, were approved by the dads, and now you're here with me."
"Do I really seem confident?"
"To them? Yeah. To me? You seem nervous."
"Can I be honest with you?" I whispered, "I'm so nervous."
"It'll be fine. The key is to stay calm. As soon as the competition starts the first few phases will be about staying calm. You seem cool, it would be nice if you stayed." As soon as she finished, a buzzer rang out and the three judges entered the space.
The cameramen came out and started panning around. The judges came up to us and started off their introductions, and we each introduced ourselves. Each of the judges were famous in their own right, even if Aditya was the real star.
Aditya Singh was know for his Indian infused flavours and for helping to popularize Eastern food in the West. He was charismatic and handsome with a voice made for radio and a face made for TV. He just had star quality smeared across his face. Even if he was kind of a smug asshole. Today, he was wearing dark jeans with a long sleeve button down. It courted the look between casual and professional.
Miranda Morrow was the next most popular judge and known colloquially as the Pastry Princess. She was only in her thirties but had established a successful brand of high end bakeries. As the daughter of a businessman and socialite, she had business sense and somehow respectable baking skulls. She was blonde, the kind of pretty you got from going under the knife, and had the sort of confidence only the privileged possessed. Her hair was down in cascading blonde waves and she wore a knee length baby blue dress.
The last judge was in his mid forties, and could best be described as edgy. He had tattoos up and down his body stopping at the top of his neck and he thought of himself as a cake artist. Isaac Arlington was basically Cake Boss personified if there was no drama and it wasn't Italian. Isaac was all about constructing edible masterpieces. His appearance was kind of...rough. His hair was in some spiky updo, and his jeans were scuffed. The short sleeve t-shirt he wore showed off his sleeve tattoos.
If Aditya was about star quality, Miranda was about marketability and Isaac was artistry.
There was a lot of camera movement and many of us were reminded not to look directly at them. I messed up my introduction a few times before I got it right. I wasn't sure if it was nerves or excitement setting in.
After all that , Aditya began, "Well, I hope you guys are ready to bake because the competition starts now. You'll have one hour to show us a dish that represents you and incorporates an element from one of the desserts that was on display for the cocktail party. You have about a minute to select a reference." Aditya raised a thick brow and raised his hands towards us. "Well, what're you waiting for? Get moving."
In a daze, I sprung forward with everyone else, the wheels in my mind turning and my eyes scanning the desserts for what to get. What was I good at? I was best at homey sorts of desserts that highlighted traditional flavours but I'd also been experimenting with unlikely flavour combinations.
I looked around at all the desserts. There was a half dismantled croquembouche, a few half empty tins of what looked like apple pie, cherry pie and some other sort of pie. Next, were some eclairs. God I hated those things. I had been entirely too nervous to remember what I ate.
I looked down at my plate to see a half eaten slice of rain forest cake, but I felt too frazzled to attempt that.
Everyone was choosing desserts around me, trying to preserve what was left of the half eaten mess. There were a little over twenty of us and people were picking things up and going back to their spots in the line up. I was circling the table and trying to pick something.
The ten second count down started and I still hadn't chosen anything.
Ten.
What did I want? What would I be good at? What would impress them? Maybe this was too much for me.
Seven.
Okay, just breathe. What do you like, Darius? Sweet things. Look at the table. Choose something sweet. Don't fuck this up.
Five
There's an hour. You bake for a living! Choose something. Far off in the distance I could hear people yelling at me to choose something.
I reached out and picked up the first thing I saw: a cupcake.
Aditya's voice rang out, "Alright, bakers. To your stations! Some of you have made some interesting choices. I'm not exactly sure how a cupcake as a reference point will impress us but I believe in all of your creative abilities. Without further ado the competition begins...Now."
Everyone shuffled over to their stations and I chose one towards the back of facility and as far away from the judges as possible. Embarrassment swooped through me as everyone got to baking and I realized I hadn't even really looked at what I'd chosen.
Other people had cakes, some pies, and there were a few ambitious choices. The judges were walking around and making comments, a few cameramen and women making sure to get all the moments.
I looked down at the cupcake on my plate. It looked like a vanilla cupcake with a vanilla bean frosting. If simple and unassuming was a cupcake...that was it.
Miranda came up to me and started watching me cut into the cupcake and take a bite. Okay it was just a plain old cupcake. Good, sure, but simple.
"So," she said casually, "walk me through how you got here."
Did she mean to the show? Why I chose a damn cupcake, or some more existential kind of question? She didn't elaborate so I just started blabbing, "I had a little bit of trouble making a choice but I think it'll be okay. I'm thinking— maybe a cupcake."
She laughed and I could tell she found me amusing. "What kind of cupcake?"
I smiled sheepishly. "Not quite sure, yet.
"Alright then, I'll leave you to it," she said with a swish of her blonde hair.
The sounds of other people cooking and banging pots together filled the space and I was drawn into the familiarity of that clamour. It brought me back to the bakery and I started thinking about Trace. My heart panged as I remembered the first time I got him to try my food.
That gave me an idea. Immediately, I got out a few bowls and starting to measure my dry and wet ingredients. Cupcakes didn't take too long to bake but I'd impress them with flavours a lot of cupcakes didn't have.
I started off with vanilla cake and chocolate cake recipes. The only trick was that I was used to following recipes for large portions and doing the mental math was slowing me down. I kept second guessing myself until I was sure that my measurements were correct. By the time I finished the prep and got the batter into the oven I had thirty five minutes left of the hour. I swallowed, thinking it would definitely be close.
Mostly everyone else had already put their items in the oven but I didn't pay too much attention to what anyone else was doing.
I starting to take out ingredients for the frosting and by then Aditya came up to me. My heart started to beat and even if my respect for him had lessened I still wanted him to see something in me.
"So, Darius, what're you baking?"
"I'm making a chocolate cupcake with marscapone frosting drizzled with a chocolate-espresso syrup and infused with tiramisu filling."
Aditya's brows rose. "Ambitious."
"And for my second cupcake I'm making a vanilla cupcake with buttercream-cinnamon frosting and with an apple pie filling."
Aditya laughed before glancing at the clock. "Do you even have time for all that? That's two different frostings I'm suspecting, two different fillings, one of which are apples that you've yet to cut in to, and you don't even know if your cupcakes baked well." He was speaking but I was focused on starting to mix together my ingredients. I didn't have time to hear his doubt. He paused before continuing, "I'll let you work."
His last sentence filled me with doubt. Was I doing too much? But then I realized I didn't have time to doubt myself because I had to bake. I started on the buttercream frosting, trying to be careful yet efficient. But over the next fifteen minutes it was becoming apparent I was racing against the clock.
After I put my baked cupcakes in the blast chiller to cool I was a maniac. My station was a mess. I had skinned the apples and then put them in a food processor that diced them into tiny cubes. On one pan on the stove I was cooking the apple pie filling, I was hand mixing the tiramisu filling in a bowl, and I had started the marscapone mixture which was stiffening into peaks in the electric mixer. It was chaos.
Eventually, I turned off the electric mixer, put the apple pie filling in a bowl, and the tiramisu filling in another bowl. Awkwardly, I carried everything over to the blast chiller and put them in before taking out my cupcakes.
Everyone else was working and I could see some people panicking even more than I was. I heard a crash and a scream about some sort of cake on the floor. Yikes, it was one of the 'dads who can bake' and I felt bad but I had to focus on myself.
"Bakers, you have fifteen minutes left!" I flinched and made my way back to my station. I just had to finish the marscapone mixture and then I could assemble my cupcakes. If I worked quickly I could make it. I knew I could.
I took a couple deep breaths and worked in the cheese with the wet mixture and started the electric mixer again. I kept looking at the clock. Then, I had to remind myself not to look at it.
When I finished the marscapone I went over to the blast chiller and put that bowl in while taking all my other bowls out. I had eight minutes left.
At my station I carefully scooped out three chocolate cupcakes and three animal cupcakes from the tin, cut out the centre of each and put them to the side. The cakes had risen well and they looked nice and airy. I used a spoon to fill the vanilla cupcakes with the apple pie filling and the chocolate cupcakes with the tiramisu filling. I felt like I had tunnel vision and my hands were shaking. This was the worst time for them to be shaking.
I took a breath and started counting to ten while putting the cinnamon-buttercream frosting in an icing bag. Piping had always come naturally to me and I piped three of the cupcakes within several seconds.
I just needed to put on the marscapone icing and I would be done! I looked at the clock and there were two minutes left. My marscapone still probably wasn't cold enough to set but I needed to get it out. All around me, people were doing their final plating and I realized I didn't even get a plate yet.
I ran over to the plating area and there were so many plates and bowls of all different sizes and types I froze. Plating wasn't really my specialty. I just grabbed a white plate big enough to hold all six cupcakes and ran over to my station.
About half of the bakers were done and the others were scrambling. I hated that I was one of the latter. I went to the blast chiller to get my marscapone mixture and— it wasn't there. I blinked a couple times to see if I was crazy. I closed the freezer, stepped back, took one long breath, and opened the freezer again. All the contestants shared the freezer and it had to be in there unless someone had taken it.
Unless someone had taken it.
"You have thirty seconds left bakers!" Isaac's voice carried over the room and even though I knew I had to move I felt glued to my spot.
Fuck.
#
Just an idea of the kinds of things that the bakers made in this first round.
Top row left to right: apple pie, croquembouche, black forest cake
Second row left to right: tiramisu, eclairs
Bottom Row: tiramisu cupcake, apple pie cupcake, savoury puff pastry
Overall thoughts?
Is it understandable why Darius is opposed to being medicated for his anxiety?
The baking competition has officially started. Any thoughts so far on the format and how the event is structured? Not sure how many chapters we'll spend here, but it's interesting to see Darius do what he loves. I worry for our anxious friend.
While Darius is in the middle of the competition I was thinking of a chapter featuring Trace, what are your thoughts on potentially switching to Trace's POV for a little? I just miss him, I guess.
Do you think Darius' marscapone icing was stolen or is it possible that, in his anxiety ridden state, he misplaced it?