Free Stir It Up by Ramin Ganeshram Page B

Then I tell them about bringing Chef Nyla with me to the audition as my “guardian.”
    “You did what?”
Now Dad’s looking like I’ve committed a crime. Mom’s shaking her head. She can’t believe what she’s hearing. Deema looks disappointed, hurt.
    Anand covers his mouth with his hand. He’s mumbling something I can’t hear.
    “Anand, eat your food!” Mom says sharply. “Anjali, what on earth were you thinking?” she asks.
    Dad is barely holding on to his fury. “That test at Stuyvesant was your future.”
    “If I can get my own TV show, it won’t matter where I go to school,” I say pleadingly. “Imagine how much money I’ll make. I’ll be a famous chef!”
    Dad starts tapping his fork on the table while I speak.
    “I done told yuh I had enough of this chef business, and now this.” His voice is so quiet, scarier than when he’s yelling. “Your hobby has turned yuh into a cheat and a liar.”
    “But —”
    He puts up his hand. “No, stop talking now. I don’t want to hear anything more about this. You will not watch any more cooking shows. Yuh only gonna prepare food in our shop. No more special cooking or cooking classes. This is over.”
    “But —” I look at Deema. “Deema, please, I —”
    Deema shakes her head. Her eyes are moist.
    “Listen to your father, child,” she says quietly.
    This is all too much. Even Deema is ganging up on me.
    “You’ll change your mind when I win!” I burst out. “Let’s see what you say when
that
letter comes!”
    “Get up from the table now, Anjali,” my father says, pushing his plate away and standing up.
    I stare furiously at Dad, then at my mother and Deema. I give Anand an evil look, too.
    I stand up quickly, knowing my chair will fall backward. “You don’t care about what I want! If you love Stuyvesant so much, why don’t
you
go there!”
    I run to my room and slam the door, kicking it once, hard, from the inside.
     
Spicy Fried Channa (Chickpeas)
    1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
    1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
    3/4 teaspoon coarse salt
    1/2 teaspoon onion powder
    1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
    1 cup canola oil
    1 fifteen-ounce can chickpeas, drained and dried in a salad spinner or with paper towels
    1. In a small bowl, whisk together the black pepper, cayenne pepper, salt, and onion and garlic powders. Set aside.
    2. Heat the oil in a deep frying pan on medium heat until a deep-frying thermometer reaches 375 degrees Fahrenheit, or until a pinch of flour dropped into the pan sizzles.
    3. Carefully add the chickpeas by gently spooning them into the frying pan using a long-handled metal spoon. Place a splatter screen over the frying pan. The chickpeas will splatter and pop quite a bit while frying.
    4. Allow the chickpeas to fry for 3 to 4 minutes or until their outsides begin to look golden brown. Remove the chickpeas from the pan using a slotted spoon and place them on a large tray lined with paper towels.
    5. When all the chickpeas are fried, place them in a deep bowl and add the spice mixture, stirring well so that all of the chickpeas are coated. Allow to cool. Serve as a snack.
    Makes 4 servings

CHAPTER TEN
Hope
    After school, I walk slowly down Liberty Avenue toward Island Spice. I hate working at our shop now, with my father speaking to me only to give orders.
    The worst part is not being able to go to the culinary school to work with Nyla. I called to tell her how my family reacted to my audition, and I told her the truth about missing the test at Stuyvesant. She was so disappointed in me. Even so, I miss her.
    I walk into Island Spice and pass my father on my way to the back room, where I dump my stuff. Dad’s busy talking to customers.
    I go to the worktable, where Deema is shredding salted codfish for the next morning’s breakfast.
    “Hi, Deema.”
    “Bayti
,” she says. “Something came for you in the mail. It looks important.”
    Deema dries her hands on the side towel looped through her apron strings and goes