A Page From Her Biography

"The girl, looking at the components before her, tied back her long blond hair with a ribbon and set her mind to the task before her. The boy standing beside the apron clad girl watched her movements with a hopeful look on his young face. He knew she was about to cook up a storm when he saw her secure her wayward locks tightly into place with the familiar black string."
"Mom. You are not Violet Baudelaire. And stop narrating what you are doing. I'm right here."

Talking out loud helped me to focus on what I was trying to accomplish. I could so easily been distracted by people watching and had too much fun. It was after all, a cooking competition, serious important business in those parts. I had thought I was a shoe in for the little gala, after all I am a professional.

"Baby, when I win the trophy, I'll let you polish it."
"How do you pronounce this dish again Mom?"
"Shut up K2. Go hang out in the bar."

The contest was up in dense Scandinavian country on "the range" in an old bar/hotel. The dish was a Finnish American one I had never tasted and didn't know how to pronounce. Mojakka. But I had read some recipes and came up with my own version. Everyone who I had made taste it had told me I was a sure thing.

"That lady stole my spot. I've gotten that table every year. I'm not sure she is even Finnish, she has red in her hair."

The local cooks pretty much ignored any social niceties with my son and I, intruders that we were. Except to elbow us out of the prime tables, and sneak curious glances at us out of the corners of their eyes. Last years winner did come over to stand back from our Marimecco decorated area and stare disapproving with a disgusted sneer on her face.

"What are you doing?"
"My dish is named, "Finnish Woman Seldom Stew."
"Yeah, I meant what's in it?"
"Crab claws, mussels, shrimp, steamer clams, Finnish fingerling potatoes, leeks, sausage, wine..."
"Oh seafood?"
"Yes.'
"You know I won last year."

We were the only ones to cook our entry right there. The other contestants lugged in their crock pots of pre made mojokka . The judges seriously asked if they were to eat the shells in my dish. The emcee invited all contestants and their family's up on the stage for the award ceremony. I stayed behind and continued to pass out samples of my stew until right before the grand announcement. From the back of the room, I could see my son had positioned himself directly in front of the emcee, looking up at him with a confident expecting look on his grinning mug. Our names were not called. My son's crest fallen face was that of incredulous disbelief. Seeing the look on my son mirrored how I hurt I was feeling, worse than losing the competition. I hope I just hid it better.

"Mom, Did that mean we did not win? How can that be? Are they just saving the grand prise for us?"
"No baby. We just didn't win this one."
"We were pearls before swine!"
"K2- that was not a nice thing to say. Where did you come up with that one?"
"In the bar."

The judges and sponsors send me a nice condolence letter thanking me in participating in the competition and explaining that although my mojakka was good, the judges found it too busy.

I had thought I had really lost when I had seen the disappointed look on my son's face. I never wanted him to think of me in a loser way and hope I never cause that look in any ones eyes. He was not disapointed in me just the judges. But I won in his reaction after our losing.

K2 tied the condolence letter around a handful of fire crackers and set them off in an empty Dinty Moore can with glee.