CHAPTER 4: PASSION FOR COOKING
Blessing Peters@petersblessing440800
5 months ago
#NircleStories
In Igbo land, Marygold visited her grandma; her dad's mother , a few times. Grandma used to say, "Life is like a pot of soup –
you add a bit of this, a bit of that, and with a sprinkle of love,
it becomes something beautiful." Marygold wished with all her might right now that life was that rosy as her memory flashed back to her college days.
Marygold once toiled as a sous chef in an upscale Los Angeles restaurant, a crucial chapter in her final year project. The atmosphere crackled with anticipation when Chef François, a maestro of traditional French cuisine, strode into the kitchen, his presence commanding immediate respect. With a thick accent that rolled like thunder, he decreed that only French would be spoken within his culinary domain.
Marygold, still grappling with the nuances of the language, felt the weight of his expectations.
“Marygold,” he boomed, his voice echoing off the stainless steel, “vous êtes une fille intelligente. Pourquoi ne parlez-vous pas français?”
“Chef, I’m sorry. I’m still learning French, so i'm not able to converse fluently....” she replied, her heart racing. The legendary Chef François, a figure she had admired for years, stood before her, and she desperately wanted to impress him.
“Learning French? Vous êtes une cuisinière, et vous ne parlez pas français? C'est incroyable!” His scoff sent a ripple of embarrassment through her.
“Chef, I understand that French is essential in our world. However, might you consider offering instructions in English or providing a translator?” Marygold suggested, her composure a fragile mask cloaking her rising anxiety.
“Un translator? Vous pensez que je suis votre nounou? Non, Marygold. Vous devez apprendre le français si vous voulez travailler dans ma cuisine.” ( "A translator? You think I'm your nanny? No, Marygold. You must learn French if you want to work in my kitchen.") His sneer pierced through her resolve causing her brows to twitch, and she longed to unleash her irritation in fluent French.
“Chef, I recognize your expectations. Yet, I refuse to be belittled for my language skills. I am a skilled chef, and I am deserving of respect,” she declared, the fire of determination igniting in her voice.
Taken aback, Chef François softened. “Hmm… Okay, Marygold. I apologize. I’ll try to be more patient with you.” Relief washed over her; It was so nerve wrecking, she thought Chef Francois would hate her forever but what are the odds, French, it ended up being one of her best projects,
The good memory was smeared with memories of a past encounter with Mr. Johnson, a pompous businessman at a high-profile event she catered, flickered in her mind. His arrogance had been palpable, a prophecy of impending trouble that she had gladly delivered to his doorstep.
Mr Johnson, a loud boisterous feaster, spotting her with a smirk amidst the crowd exclaimed, “I’m surprised you’re able to cook such complex dishes, I mean...considering your… limited background.”
Marygold’s smile was a mask of grace as she retorted, “Thank you, Mr. Johnson. I’m glad you’re enjoying the food. However, I must point out that my background is not limited. My African heritage is a source of immense pride, shaping my culinary artistry. Without it, you wouldn’t be savoring such exquisite flavors, so perhaps you should be on two knees, appreciating the richness of my culture.” low whistles were let out among the crowd at her last statement
Taken aback by the outright backlash, Mr. Johnson stammered, “Oh, I didn’t mean to offend. I just meant that… well, you know.”
Marygold’s voice was firm yet calm as she responded, “I understand what you meant, Mr. Johnson. So let me make one thing clear: my African heritage is not something to be ashamed of. It is to be respected as a unique identity that has cultivated good flavor and has unleashed it's aroma to the world.”
Flushed with embarrassment, Mr Johnson replied, “Hmm, what a haughty wench. You think talent is all it takes to be successful? And you a black one as well, the crows are looking for what to chew and chomp. Do be careful with that pride.”
“It's not pride , it's confidence. I wouldn't have accepted your apologies anyway so it's not so problematic that your words are failing you to summon the right statements which consists of a short polite apology . Do take care Monseiur Johnson" she said, a dark light of satisfaction dancing in her eyes as turned back to serving.
Marygold found herself wandering down the treacherous path of memory lane, a place she really should have avoided. As she stumbled upon one particular recollection, a deluge of cringeworthy moments began to wash over her like a particularly nasty wave at the beach. Professor Lee's face popped into her thoughts, his words ricocheting around her brain like a tennis ball in a lunatic's game.
Professor Lee was lauded as a revered academic—some even deemed him a genius—while Marygold simply remembered him as the crafty little worm who squirmed into all the wrong gardens. "Marygold, my dear," he'd simpered, with a grin that could only be described as slightly disconcerting, "I must say you are one of the most intelligent and charming young women I've ever met. I have an irresistible proposition for you! How would you like to be my personal assistant? You’ll enjoy benefits that would make a golden retriever jealous, and I guarantee you’ll be well taken care of."
Marygold, clearly taken aback, raised an eyebrow so high it could have escaped into orbit. "A housemaid? You want me to be your housemaid? Professor Lee, I belong to the Macrov family, one of the wealthiest families in the city. I don’t need a job as a housemaid, and my definition of being ‘well taken care of’ does not involve scrubbing floors!"
Professor Lee let out a chuckle that suggested he was just hit with a clever idea he had stolen from a sitcom. "Ah, yes, the illustrious Macrov family! I’ve heard whispers of their grandeur. But let’s keep it real, shall we, Marygold? You’re a young African woman navigating a sea of stale crackers in a predominantly white society. People stare at you like you’ve just arrived from Mars, all because of your beautiful skin color. Your opportunities evaporate faster than my patience at a bad dinner party. You have to work three times harder than the average chef just to keep your restaurant relevant, while I, in all my white male privilege, merely have to show up with a bagel and a smile. Trust me, sweetie, I can open doors your parents couldn’t even dream of. You could use my help."
Marygold shot back, light practically sparking from her eyes, "Professor Lee, I don't need your ‘help.’ And your condescending attitude is so last season. I could quadruple my workload if it means getting where I want to be."
Professor Lee’s lip curled into a sneer that could have competing in a sneering Olympics. "Fine, Marygold. You're making a monumental blunder, and one day you'll look back and kick yourself for it."
Marygold smiled lightly but with a dark edge that could rival a horror film villain. "I doubt it, Professor Lee. I’d rather be a rich and struggling woman than a rich and enslaved one. Oh, and by the way, don’t you think it’s time to retire? That colonial mindset of yours is showing, and it’s about as attractive as a bellybutton lint collection." With a tongue-cluck reminiscent of her grandmother’s disapproval, she turned on her heel and sauntered out of Professor Lee's office.
As she exited, thoughts of that scumbag swirled in her mind—Marygold totally regretted not giving his overgrown nose a proper thump. Just then, another wave of bad memories surfaced, bringing forth Archie, the talent troll with a heart of jealousy. Archie was a fountain of golden hair and toxic rivalry, always eager to squish others’ accomplishments like they were annoying little bugs. The paparazzi loved her, especially whenever she threw one of her dramatic fits that made even toddler tantrums look composed.
Jealous of Marygold's burgeoning success, Archie had stormed into Marygold’s restaurant during its grand opening, which was like hosting a surprise party for a fire-breathing dragon. "You think you're a real chef just because you can toss around some African spices?" she declared, staring hard into Marygold's eyes, "Please, I’ve seen better cooking in a middle school cafeteria!"
Marygold couldn’t help but break into a chuckle, mischief dancing in her eyes. "You? Visiting a middle school cafeteria? With all that ego? Do tell! Was it a food fight or just a food tragedy?" As she rolled her eyes, the realization dawned on her. "Oh, I see—you're one of those ‘I’m-a-failed-chef-so-I’ll-just-hate-on-others’ types. Look, sweetie, my cooking may be a wild ride for the taste buds, but at least I'm not flipping through Mama's cookbook like it’s a treasure map. So, keep on hating while I just keep on cooking... and winning awards.”
Strutting like a Michelin-starred diva, Marygold turned her back to the fawning crowd—poor, flustered Archie barely able to catch up as she gracefully glided back to her kitchen, silver trays held like trophies.
Now, reflecting on her day, Marygold wished she could catch a break from all the grumbling about race and rivalry. Sure, she had mastered the art of handling haters with poetic grace, but even that was exhausting. Ugh, she thought, sighing deeply. "I just wish I could share this burden with someone."
As if to shake off the heaviness of her thoughts, she opened her eyes, catching the morning light filtering through the window. "Seems like I'll never get that rest I wanted just lying here. Better head to the kitchen—what better distraction than work?" she muttered to herself as she hopped out of bed and strode toward her culinary playground, ready to whip up some magic.
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