Don’t You Pretend

Hannah

Unemployment isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Or maybe it is. I’m not really sure what people are saying about it, but I do know I’m not enjoying it.

I quit my job five weeks ago, and despite having a degree in culinary arts, years of restaurant experience, and the drive to make my mark anywhere willing to take a chance on me, no one wants to. I’m feeling hopeless, because even though I’m living in the most populated city in Canada, finding a new suitable job seems impossible. Sure, I could work in fast food or somewhere just to earn a paycheque, but I have worked too hard to give up on my dreams by selling myself short.

Plus, I live with my parents, so I’m not worried about getting evicted.

So that’s me, Hannah Parker, in a nutshell. Twenty-eight, unemployed, living in my childhood bedroom, and tragically single. The single part doesn’t bother me, though, because I’m lucky enough to have the real love of my life curled up on my feet. My pug, Akili, is keeping my toes warm while I stare at my empty email inbox, waiting for a job offer to roll in.

“Hannah?” My mom’s shrill voice calls from across the house.

Instead of shouting back, I get up, much to Akili’s dismay, and walk out to the kitchen. My mother’s hearing is not what it used to be.

“Yes, Ma?”

“Oh, good. You’re home.”

I’m unemployed and single. Where else would I be?

“Help me with these groceries, please? I got everything on the list.”

My eyes light up when I spot the fresh produce and butcher-wrapped cuts of meat my mother purchased. I’m so desperate for something to do, I asked—okay, begged—Mom to invite some of her friends over so I can cook for them. I’m afraid if I don’t use my skills, I’ll lose them. Plus, I get a lot of excitement from watching people enjoy the things I create. I could use a little excitement right now.

“These look great. Good choice,” I commend.

Her soft brown eyes stare up at me as a smile tugs at her lips and creases her face. “Thank you for doing this. It’s been too long since I’ve seen some of these ladies. They’re all looking forward to it.”

“I’m happy to, Ma. This internet job search is getting old, and I can’t face another in-person rejection.”

My mother pulls me in for a tight hug. “Don’t worry, beautiful girl. The right job will turn up. You were too good for Harvest, anyway.”

That’s an understatement. Not only was management a joke, the kitchen staff were incompetent, their health and safety practices left a lot to be desired, and, let’s just say, I wouldn’t eat there unless the entire world’s supply of canned beans had been consumed. From the start, I knew I was better than that place, but I got complacent. Maybe even a little stubborn, wanting to prove to myself I could save a failing restaurant. Not everything is worth saving, though. That’s something I keep learning the hard way.

I push aside my disappointment in my stagnant career and focus on the task ahead: creating an epic meal for a group of women who will probably be more interested in the wine selection.

I swipe away the sweat dripping from my forehead with my black cotton shirt. My long, ash brown hair was in a tight ponytail before I started; now, I can feel tendrils coming loose, tickling my neck and ears. Irritating, but I will persevere.

My mother’s friends have started to arrive. They’re giggling and talking over each other in the living room. Thankfully, our mid-century bungalow isn’t open-concept, so I can maintain some peace and privacy in the closed-off kitchen.

Once I put the finishing touches on the butternut squash ravioli appetizers, I call out to my mom for her assistance. Her less-than-stellar hearing means she doesn’t respond. I peek my head into the living room to find my mother and eight women—only half of whom I recognize. One of the four familiar faces sparks with recognition when she spots me. Now it’s too late for me to duck back into the kitchen.

Why would Mom invite her?

I take a deep breath as the woman approaches.

“Hannah Parker. How have you been?”

If I thought for one second Noa McNamara genuinely cared about the answer to that question, I’d respond more favourably. Her stunning coffee-coloured hair with subtle highlights is pulled back into a tight twist. Her nails are done in a tasteful French manicure, and her outfit looks like Coco Chanel herself. But her poised appearance doesn’t hide the hatred radiating from her.

“I’m great, thanks. Just looking for my mom.” I attempt to walk past, but Noa blocks me with her arm.

“Catherine said you’re currently unemployed. That’s too bad.”

We stand in silence for a few seconds. I shouldn’t care what she thinks, but the last thing I want is to be viewed as some pathetic deadbeat, which leaves me unsure what to say. I send Akili a pleading look when she opens one eye from her bed by the fireplace; her reaction says I better sort this out myself, because she’s not about to intervene.

So I take matters into my own hands and reply, “Well, my old boss cared more about his business than he did about people. I’m sure you can understand that’s not an ideal scenario to dedicate your life to.”

Based on Noa’s brief scowl, she understands the point I’m making.

“If you’ll excuse me. Food will be ready in a minute.” I sidestep her arm and walk over to my mother, then lean down to whisper in her ear.

She interrupts the chatting by shouting, “Everyone, our food is ready. You ladies get seated at the table, and we’ll bring out our first course. I hope you’re hungry.”

My mother and I walk back into the kitchen with her clasping my hand and bouncing with each step. A sure sign she’s dabbled in the wine offerings already.

We each carry out three dishes at a time and place them around the table for mom’s guests, then I return for the last three. I could have asked my friends, Angel and Vida, to come help, but they both have actual social lives and jobs. I wasn’t about to ask them to give up a Saturday for an unpaid gig.

“Here we have butternut squash ravioli with a brown butter sauce. This is just the appetizer, so there’s plenty more to come. Please, enjoy.” I race out of the dining room so I can hide behind the kitchen wall and listen to their reactions.

There are squeals—honest to God squeals—of delight as several voices gush over the appetizer. This is a good start. I’ve missed this. Even during my time at Harvest, I never experienced this. Their menu was an embarrassment.

As I’m working on final touches for the main course and finishing up the salad, my mother brings nine empty pasta bowls back to the kitchen. Not a crumb to be found. Akili will be disappointed, but because of her rebuff earlier when I could have used her help, I don’t feel bad.

“That was a hit. Everyone loved it.”

A huge smile splits my face. Those words are everything to a chef.

We carry out the next course, which I present as a baby kale salad with pears, candied walnuts, and goat cheese. The ladies ooh and ahh over the presentation. I sneak away, again pausing for a few seconds to hear their hushed chatter. Things like “She’s so talented,” and “That was the best thing I’ve ever tasted” buzz around the dining room.

That sparks my excitement over presenting the main course. The pièce de résistance. Beef Wellington, herb-roasted fingerling potatoes, and wilted greens. I plate the final dish as my mother returns with the salad bowls.

“Hannah, this smells divine. The ladies have loved everything,” my inebriated mother compliments.

I never had any doubt, but this—cooking for these women and bringing them so much joy through food—is where I belong. This is what I’m meant to be doing. It’s just too bad the only place I can do it is my mother’s 1980s kitchen. What I wouldn’t give for a gas stove right about now.

The main course is as well received as the rest of the food, making me feel like a rockstar.

Until Noa stops me on my way back to the kitchen after delivering dessert. “Hannah, I’ve heard through the grapevine that Hibiscus is looking for new kitchen staff. Maybe you should apply.”

I pause and stare at her, questioning her intentions. Noa McNamara doesn’t do things out of the goodness of her heart for me, considering our history. But Hibiscus has the potential to be great, and would definitely be worth putting in the effort to save. With a twelfth-floor location on the waterfront, its recent renovations made local headlines, but the food fell flat. If I could be part of the team to rebuild their reputation—something I failed to do at Harvest—it could catapult my career to new heights.

Even with the suspicious look on this woman’s face, it might be worth the risk to apply.