They tuned in each week to watch me. Us. We were the four remaining, finals week was approaching. The past ten weeks had flown, challenges and lessons, all for a chance to live in a new home. A far more luxurious, opulent place, where judgement was reserved for tasteful fashion choices and the ability to predict and live by trends. Freedom, in comparison to the organic, often Puritan based lifestyle of those born outside the City. Now, only three contestants stood in the road of that coveted citizenship.
The main building where we resided was a stark, austere set of living spaces, occupied by a monochromatic colour scheme. The Ring where we competed was full of steam, flames and flavours. Inside the ovens, we created the most delectable, often bizarre menus. The Cauldron was based on the previous decades of cooking reality media: Iron Chef of the nineties, Masterchef of the turn of the century spanning the next twenty five years. We were the next generation, our culinary experiments required to be an esculent epiphany. In the first round, themed seafood, one contestant had chosen create a consommé of Crown of Thorns. The judges, upon noticing her main ingredient, asked her to sample her creation in trust for them. The poor girl ended up medically treated, but sent away from the house. My own works had been considerably less incompatible with the stomach, but not in the realms of the bourgeois. Now, this evening, life would change significantly for a single aspirant.
“What are they going to pick, d’ya think?” Aimee, a slight and nervous girl, was having her daily pre-theme freak out. “It’s gotta be somethin’ hard n’ all, they never pick somethin’ easy, remember last year? That fella nearly died trying to get that honey….” Rambling on, she crossed the lounge room for another glass of wine. The fiasco of the honey was memorable: in a desperate effort to impress the judges, a contestant had decided (rashly) to harvest a rare type of honey from its nest, keen to use the entire nest as honeycomb and a display. Ridiculously, he had forgotten to smoke the bees, and whilst preoccupied with the nest and its buzzing occupants, neglected to notice the bear, who was slightly upset seeing his morning tea in a removal stage, and turned straight into it as he finally got the nest down. Between the buzzing of the bees, the intruder and the nest disappearing, the bear managed to maul the poor boy, tears to his face and chest, the stings of the bees….let’s say it didn’t end well. He also had been carted off by medical, and due to the lack of communication between the fields and the city itself, we never found out how he coped. This year, I hoped no one would be so stupid as to inadvertently battle a bear. The competition was strong: twin boys from the outlying fields, adept hunters with a butcher father who knew every cut of meat and how best to cook it; Aimee came from a line of cheese makers of the most exquisite flavours whilst my family had been trading our fruits for which we were famous with hers for over a decade. She was still a stress bucket. Nothing changed that. Unfortunately for me, Aimee was incredibly talented, her daily consumption of the wine was affecting her where I had hoped it would mellow her. Fail.
The bell chimed and we had half an hour to prepare ourselves for the cameras and make our way to the Ring. Predictably, Aimee flapped.
“But, what if…when we…are you, do you think…” Gulping like a guppy, she turned in anxious circles. As she revolved past me, I turned her towards the bathroom and gave her a gentle push.
I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, trying to clear my mind of Aimee’s panic. Infectious stuff, that. Changing clothes, quick brush of hair, new deodorant (provided by the City, field girls never changed their scent). A little makeup, likewise insisted upon. Then we were out the door, moving quickly through the tunnel that connected our suite to The Ring. Other doors exited from the sides of the brick work, unoccupied all but for one. The twins barrelled through, checked, preened for the cameras and sneered a little at us as we fell back before their abrupt arrival.
No windows, only the cameras and their tag-along reporters for us. Denied a glimpse of the City we were so desperately vying for a place in, we strode towards the gate which barred us from the Ring. Stopping before the grill, I took a few more deep breathes, while Aimee vibrated with nerves. She was like this before every round.
“Think you’ll cope with this, eh, Figgy?” One of the twins sneered at me. I turned, and wished I hadn’t. Dodging his putrid breath, I ducked a little and just raised an eyebrow. I’d made it a policy not to engage with most of the contestants, Aimee aside, she was from home, and my roomie, it just seemed too mean to abandon her.
Lights and steam already filled the dome shaped auditorium, a muted velvet cloth covered the table where our themed ingredients sat, awaiting their fate as we did ours. I prayed it wasn’t too much meat, coming from a family of fruit farmers, I focused on extravagant sauces and sweets, toffees of raspberries winding above my head, or chocolates which – when cut – burst out into fountains of succulent fig sauce. Hence, Figgy.
A click, and the gate drew upward, like a portcullis of old. We took our places at the ovens, my familiar stainless steel bench freshly scrubbed clean. So many wins, ease flowed into my limbs as I glanced beneath the slab of metal to check the implements below. Steam swirled above my head to be extracted at a central point of the dome, creating a double helix-like effect at the top. The cameras panned back to us, the music intrusive. Our judges, four of the most plutocratic subjects of the City, strolled around the circumference of the Ring which divided our competitive space from the multitude of media on the opposing side.
Our culinary Ambassador began his pre- reveal prattle. I looked around, observing the other competitors absorb his words with beatific expressions. The City would be watching; showmanship would win the day. Each judge had his favourites, was a given vote, others harder to convince. One would triumph in the Ring, the remainder, banished from the city for generations in shamefaced defeat.
The music reached a crescendo and the Ambassador finished speaking. He waved his hand theatrically above the velvet-clad mound, and with rehearsed pizzazz, whipped the cloth away.
Meat. Huge slabs of meat. Internally I groaned and looked away, glancing at the twins, expecting gloating expressions. One of the twins nudged his brother, murmuring. They glanced at each other with astounded looks and I frowned, turning between the food laden table and the twins. They nodded and turned united to the cameras. Ugh. I would not be defeated by this pair. Determined, I lifted my platter and basket to chose my pieces. There was some greenery I had spotted at the side of the table in relief, and decided a traditional roast with stuffings and glazes might save me. My gaze wandered off to the table when I realised the Ambassador was up again, rambling on about food shortages. Confused, I glanced at the timer, sure it would have started again. The hands stood stationary. Then Aimee screeched. Startled almost to toppling, I stared at her, her face comically drawn into a horrified goggle. Glancing at the Ambassador, who stood rocking on his heels with a slight smile, I cringed. Definitely should have been listening.
“Organic, Miss Fig. Totally organic and voluntary, harvested from the greenest of Fields.” He smirked at his little joke and I looked again at the meat. Really looked. Elongated slabs. Fresh, and slim. Joints shorter than a cow’s. We didn’t have organic meat in the fields. Hunters like the Twins were our source of non poultry meats. I closed my eyes. Aimee hyperventilated next to me. I knew what this meat was. The Ambassador continued about acceptance of a new luxury to be introduced in his restaurants after the screening of the final. The winner’s dish would be used to pave the way into a new style of cooking, a new trend created by our undertaking. The height of fashion.
Aimee finally succumbed to lack of oxygen as the Twins grabbed their plates and baskets, charging to the table in fixed determination. There was a thump as Aimee hit the floor and was whisked away by medics. A small dot of red remained after her and I stared as it seemed to wobble under the lights and steam. I looked down at my platter, my clean bench and knives.
I took a deep breath.
Becoming Writer 2016 Anniversary Contest 