Honestly Elliott: Part One

When I become Chef Elliott, I’m focused. Confident. Decisive. I look at a pile of ingredients and see all the possibilities stretching out before me—everything that they can become—and I transform them into something bigger and better.

The gas stove has a couple of burners that can be finicky, and the cupboards are crowded.

Inevitably, she gets all teary and reaches out to rumple my hair in this specific way that shows that means me growing too, not just her plants.

The last part is because I have ADHD, otherwise known as attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. Otherwise known as: my brain is stubborn and likes to do its own thing.

Janice is the chef of the family, but his other mom, Grace, is a minimalist, so everything in their kitchen has to do more than one task.

Grace also believes in Tidying Up, so everything always has its very own place. Even the wok that’s twice the size of my head. Even the smallest jars of expensive saffron threads and dried lime leaves and black cumin seed, tucked in the very back of the spice drawer.

The rooms are painted Evening Leap, Gossamer Fog, and Coastal Yearning.

They’re all in-between-type colors: not quite beige, not quite gray, not quite eggshell. There’s a reason they don’t make a crayon called Coastal Yearning—can you imagine how much that would confuse a kindergartner?

Then she hung a monogrammed thing on the front door with her and Dad’s initials.

I flopped on the bed, pushing aside a pillow that looked like a buoy. “I know she tried. But sailboats, Dad? I hate the ocean. I can barely swim!”

Some people think Griffin Connor is obnoxious—Mom can’t stand the way he calls people Muffinheads and throws muffins at them.

I trace my hands over the cool marble countertops. Sleek and crisp, not a houseplant to be found.

It’s a complete waste of those super hot burners. With them, I could get a better sear on meats. Sautéing would be a breeze. Don’t even get me started about what it could do for my stir-frying.

I trim the bell peppers and heap their stems and membranes and seeds next to the peels.

I feel the rhythm of the rocking blade and watch the ingredients pile up: diced cucumber and onion, chopped garlic and ginger, a little pile of minced cilantro that I’ll save for the very end.

According to him, chefs have to develop an intuition about cooking.

Griffin Connor says real cooking is more about technique and inspiration.

How else would I keep track of my skillet toasting the sesame seeds, the water coming up to boil, meanwhile whisking the thick sauce that will coat each and every noodle with peanut buttery perfection?

Our town holds a four-week culinary academy camp, and this year I’m finally old enough to do it. In the morning we will shop at the farmers’ market every day for fresh, in-season ingredients. In the afternoons, we’ll go to real restaurants and get hands-on cooking lessons from professional chefs.

In the final week of camp, we’ll open our own pop-up restaurant and all the money raised goes to fight food insecurity here in Avery.

Kate rummaged in the silverware drawer.

I taste every component as I go, seasoning as needed.

Every weekend at Dad and Kate’s is the same: when I’m not looking, my backpack explodes its contents around the room. Sometimes I think my backpack is an evil entity that actively plots against me.

Before long, most of the Elliott-things are gone and the room is back to its normal, tasteful self. We wouldn’t want the sailboats to have to look at a messy room all week.

So it’s going to be the talk about academics—the usual. More homework. More studying. More “accountability.”

As we pass the park, I crane my neck for a glimpse of the playground with the rocket slide.

“I checked the grade portal. It looks like you missed an assignment last week in math.”
I wince just thinking of the expression on Mr. Gower’s face.

And I barely know the difference between a touchdown and a rebound.

She’s wearing her too-big gardening overalls with mushrooms embroidered on the pocket.

He peers at the roof like he’s doing an inspection.
“One of those shingles is a bit loose,” he says.

I grimace, looking at the dirt and the weeds I forgot to pull.

I clench my hands into fists and then relax them. It’s not because I want to punch something. Tensing up and then relaxing is a strategy from Dr. Gilmore. It’s supposed to help me get down when I’m feeling overwhelmed.

There are paintings on the wall, art posters, and even some vintage seed packets.

He never writes all that much, but I can practically see his face and hear his voice saying the words.

“I know I should pay him back,” I say haltingly. It’s like the words stick in my throat.