Chris Negron - The Last Super Chef

For the single moms, for all the moms... but especially for my mom

I know the exact amount of flour for the perfect cake batter. Im able to tell if a steak is rare just by touching it. I can make a perfect piecrust without looking at a recipe. But I never quite recognize the ingredients that are going to get me into trouble until its way too late. Tonight theyre cupcakes, a culinary torch, and an undefeated high school basketball team.

Weve arrived at the high school way early, but there are still plenty of pregame fans on hand, all of them staring at our foil trays and cooler. Staring at ustwo fifth graders and a fourth gradermarching up the hallway, looking more than a little out of place.

This crowd is small potatoes, though. Im talking red skin or fingerlings, even. It wont be long before the gym and hallways are completely packed with tons of basketball fans. Which is perfect, because Im actually counting on a russet-size crowd.

Tonights idea started out small, with one simple fact that my best friend, Tre, dropped on me at lunch the other day: his brother Joshs varsity team, the North Sloan Eagles, have been straight-up crushing every opponent so far this season. High school basketball is especially huge in North Sloan. They even start the season early to squeeze more games into the schedule.

Curtis, the gyms gonna be packed! Tre told me days ago. The whole townll be there.

Who are they playing again? I asked him. I was kneading my tiny, doughy idea into some kind of shape in my brain. A baguette, maybe. Possibly a boule.

Waxford. The Wolves. The Eaglesve been away for almost two weeks. This is only their second home game of the season.

And just like that, my little idea got way huge, as if Id put too much yeast into my dough and the carbon dioxide was releasing crazy fast. Everybody, huh?

On game night, Josh seemed almost nervous. He was so focused on beating the Wolves, he didnt ask us a single question. Not when we begged for a ride to his school, not when he picked up Paige and me alone in front of our apartment, not when Tre had to swing Joshs duffel bag into the front seat to make room for our cooler in the back.

We pass the kids at what must be the normal concessions table, two lanky teenagers. Theyve got some fresh coffee brewing behind them, and by the black and orange carafes Im guessing one is regular and the other decaf. Thats actually not a bad plan. But on their main table all they have are bottled waters and canned sodas arranged in color-coded rows. In front of those, a few cellophane-wrapped chocolate chip cookies looking as hard as rocks are piled beside a pyramid display of over-marshmallowed Rice Krispies Treats.

Amateurs.

I still dont get why you need a lawyer for this, Tre complains.

I stop rolling the cooler. What do you mean, lawyer? My best friend falls silent. The distant squeak of sneakers in the gym tells me the Eagles are starting to warm up.

I dont know, Tre finally says, shrugging. You said you needed me to sue somebody.

Not S-U-E sue, S-O-U-S sous! I yell. He gives me a blank look. I dont need a lawyer, I need a sous chef.

Tre smacks both frustrated fists against his hips. You lost me, dude.

Youre Curtiss assistant, Tre, Paige says. You do all the little jobs. Whatever Chef needs. At home, I usually do it.

So you dont need me, then? Tres shoulders droop a little.

We definitely need you. Paige has to take care of the cash box. My little sister dips her shoulders so her backpack will slide off them. She unzips it, revealing a vintage aluminum Wonder Woman lunch box. It rattles with loose change, most of which we found in the couch cushions. Unaccounted-for money isnt actually a thing in the Pith household.

I can do that, Tre says, his eyes lighting up at the prospect of handling actual cash money.

Oh, yeah? I point out a nearby table. Its the perfect size, the one thing we couldnt bring that I was hoping to stumble upon. We each grab an end. Tell me this, then. I grunt. This tables heavier than I thought. If were selling cupcakes for $2.25 each, three for $5.75, how much is it if someone asks for five?

Tres lips move silently as he tries to work it out, but Paige is way too fast. She shouts, $10.25! $5.75 for the first three, then $4.50 for the other two$2.25 apiecefor a total of $10.25. But! She lifts a finger into the air. You can get a sixth one for only $1.25 more...

Shes only in fourth grade, a year younger than Tre and me (actually, eleven months, she always corrects me), but Paige Pith is hands down the whizziest math whiz in all of Sloan Elementary.

Fine. Tre looks around. Whats my job, then?

Paige grins. You shout, Yes, Chef! Like, a lot.

His jaw unhinges. Seriously?

We ease the table to the floor and extend the legs. Any smooth-running kitchen needs a clear hierarchy, I preach, echoing one of my favorite TV chefs mantras. Paige is on orders and money. Im the chef. That means you get sugar and delivery. Ill show you what to do in a minute.

Once our trays are on the table and Ive walked them through the plan a couple times, I carefully remove the foil to expose the first batch of cupcakes Paige and I prepped last night. The tops are all coned out, leaving an indent thats waiting for the star of the dish, not so much a frosting as a topping. I grab two chilled bowls from the cooler, one holding my signature pastry cream, the other a light meringue. A faint scent of vanilla wafts into the air when I peel back the plastic.

I fold the meringue into the creamgently, dont want bubblesand stand up a piping bag in a sundae glass. Before pouring my topping in, I need the coup de gracethats, like, the ultimate last step that makes everything awesomeone of my go-to ingredients. I reach into the cooler a final time, my hand coming back with a single lemon and a microplane. Slowly, I grate just the right amount of lemon zest over the waiting bowl.

Paige starts organizing our coins into stacks of quarters and dimes and nickels. I have to say, my sister is an awesome sport, up for just about any of my wild ideas. She knows how much I love cooking, so at night when Mom heads out to her second-shift job at the post office, Paige helps me with whatever dish I try to master next. Because if Im serious about becoming a great chef, I have to be sure to leave no culinary stone unturned.

And when I ask Paige for a few hours of her time at the high school, assure her that shell be able to catch up on her precious homework in the morning before we chase the bus, she doesnt even stop stirring the risotto.

The only thing that seems to surprise my sister is my culinary talent. Whenever I drop some new technique out of the blue, Paige always says the same thing. You know, I cant cook without burning everything, and Mom cant even boil water, so its sort of amazing you can do all this.

Of course she doesnt understand, because Paige doesnt know my secret. She doesnt know who our father is. Mom never talks about that anymore. But years ago our mother let it slip to me. Ever since then, Ive known who my dad is. Ever since then, Ive understood exactly where my cooking talent comes from.

By the way, yes, of course I hate my last name. If you dont know, the pith is that white section between the zest and citrus fruitlemons, oranges, limes. Its the stuff youre supposed to stay away from if you dont want a bitter dish. Yep, the pith is the most useless food ever, the absolute worst name for a chef.