TO : mccullinary557@gmail.com
FROM : admin@theblackmensstove
SUBJECT : The Black Men's Stove Annual Culinary Contest
Congratulations!
Dear Miss McCullen,
It is with great delight to announce that, through a blind-tasting test, you were the winner of TBMS’s Annual Culinary Contest, held every year. It was a unanimous decision to make you our new hire at our respected kitchen, one of the most-visited in all of *****, USA. However, you should know by now that our kitchen is occupied by a select-bunch of culinary geniuses, all of whom are male and, gathering from your passport photo, a different skin-color from yours. We regret to inform you that many applicants have almost gotten through the rigid selection process, but turned the job down at the last minute as they were uncomfortable with working with those of (a) different race(s). Despite this, we hope you will seriously consider our offer as this will not only look great on your resume/application to a culinary college of your choice, but because you will be a much welcomed and valued asset to our kitchen. The top-notch judges have exclaimed their profound liking to your dish, with its creative name and presentation, it was especially a winner amongst those with rich taste-buds.
We sincerely hope that you present us a favourable reply in a weeks’ time.
Sorry for the short notice, and regards,
Blossom Fujikawa, Head-Administrator
The Black Men’s Stove, ***** #*****, USA.
Nadine drops her iPhone into the soupy beef stew she was preparing, ladle abandoned and forgotten in the midst of this congratulatory letter.
“Gosh”, she finally utters, wiping her hands on her worn-down apron, “I hope they’ve appreciated the pun in my email address.” Because really, McCulinaryis all she cares about.
That, and how to prepare a wholesome, nutritious leek-dressing in under five minutes.
*************************
“Kiro Robert Fujikawa!”
Kiro winces, and troops into his mother’s office reluctantly, ignoring the gold-embossed words on her heavy, mahogany door, that read Knock First! followed by a simple sketch of a bonsai plant.
When he steps into her office, his mother is simultaneously shouting at him and watering her row of bonsai plants, with her periwinkle-blue watering pot. It is a trait, a skill that Kiro greatly admires, despite the bleeding-ears-effect it has on him.
“Fujikawa!”
“Hai, mama-san.”
“The bloody heck is mama-san, FUJIKAWA?!”
Kiro gulps. This twenty-two year old is shaking, a stream of something sticky and icky going to trail down from his inner-thigh soon. A terrifying period ensues, where no-one speaks at all, and Kiro waits for his mother--this demonic, iron-hand-ruler creature to tell him what name is deemed "appropriate" for him to call her.
“BOSS!”
“HAI!” His shoulders slump in relief.
“No, BOSS!”
Kiro manages a weak salute, licking his chapped lips, “Boss. Reporting. For. My. Duty.” He adds as an afterthought, with gritted teeth.
His mother clasps her hands and sets her elbows on her dark-wood desk (she is a woman who loves wood furnishings). “Fujikawa Kiro, one of my most esteemed chefs, amazing culinary skill, although he could use a little more modesty in his life—”
“Also, your son”, Kiro mutters.
“—A pinch of discipline would do him good as well. And thus, I have inserted—no, what’s the English term? The proper term for ‘put-under’ someone’s tutelage? Oh, that is the term! I have put-under your care our newest chef.”
“Not like I’m going to top him”, Kiro mumbles, shifting from foot to foot, and quickly snaps back to attention when his mother strides over, taking a handful of his cheek in her French manicure (that fudging hurts, for those of you who don’t have strict-as-hell culinary geniuses for a mother), and yelling him out for speaking inappropriately.
“And she’s a SHE!”
“Don’t play with me, ma.”
“BOSS! And it’s a she, Fuji-idiot. She has replied and is one of those very talented, selected few that have actually responded to the thought of working in an all-male kitchen, and has accepted the job, unlike other incompetent beings.” She lets go of his cheek and looks away. Kiro senses the icy silence that follows; his mother had always been insecure about hiring females, mainly because they’d always have the nerve to not reply to his mother, scared of the mainly-male system, and to be put bluntly, Kiro’s mother is sick of all the testosterone circulating in the back-kitchens.
“Fine”, Kiro replies begrudgingly, rolling his eyes, “a picture of her, plea—”
“Here!” His mother whips a passport-sized photo of the girl almost immediately, and Kiro questions his mother’s stalker abilities.
He fingers the glossy edge of the photo, his eyes scanning the face staring back at him.
Kiro staggers into the wall, and pukes into the left-most bonsai plant.
a/n WHAT DID I JUST WRITE I HOPE IT'S UP TO Y'ALL WATTPADDERS' standards, oh gosh. This story is greatly inspired by a mix of authors whose books I've repeatedly voted for and library-ed in my other account; and one of them is LYDIAAAAA (@lydiarse THIS IS DEDICATED TO THE FREAKING PILE OF TALENT AND GOODNESS WHICH IS YOUHH!)
I hope this isn't a very dis-enjoyable (is that a word?) read. VOTE, COMMENT, SHARE, AND LIKE!
<3
thank you
love xx
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Kitchen & Co
Teen Fiction" ...you're white." "The salt to your pepper, baby." ------------------------------------------- Nadine McCullen is a girl who has the hands to cook the goods and the stomach(sometimes stomachS) eat it. After a particularly successful shot at a culi...
