1
Amara:
“You’ve got to do this. For Paradise,” I whisper to myself, clutching the box of muffins closer to myself as I step into the bustling TV station.
The receptionist -a busty woman with sleek black hair and thick-rimmed glasses—gives me a once-over, Hannah, her name tag read- her skeptical expression doing nothing to calm my bustling nerves.
“Hi, I’m here for the audition for the cooking show,” I say, forcing a polite smile.
“And you are?” she asks, raising a perfectly arched, trimmed brow.
“Amara Valdez. I own the bakery, Paradise in Downtown.”
Her eyes flick to the notepad in front of her, and she nods briskly. “Yep, there it is. The interview’s in the second door on the right. Have you brought a dish for the selection round?”
“Yes, muffins,” I reply, lifting the box to show her.
Her lips twitch, not quite forming a smile. “Muffins? Interesting choice. Sydney Skylar brought a Saffron-infused Risotto.”
The comparison stings, but I force a bright smile. “Well, Hannah, my muffins have been known to win people over.”
She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. Instead, she waves me off. “Second door on the right.”
“Thank you,” I say, slightly taken aback, butkeeping my tone polite as I turn toward the hallway.
The massive screen in the lobby catches my eye, displaying the vibrant advertisement for “The Final Plate”. The glossy images of chefs whisking sauces and plating elaborate dishes are paired with dramatic music.
My throat tightens as the tagline flashes across the screen: Where only the bold survive.
The hallway is sterile and wiped down to perfection, mirrored walls and crystal white tiled floors, and the dangling chandeliers every ten feet. The centralized air conditioning made my nose feel stuffy.
I tighten my grip on the box of muffins. “You’ve got this,” I murmur to myself. “For Paradise.”
I enter the second door on the right,-she said right, right?- a group of three people engaged in an seemingly uninterested conversation perks up as I enter.
“Hello. I’m Amara Valdez.” I say and walk to them with a confident smile, or as confident enough as I can muster.
“Valdez, the owner of Paradise?’ The blonde woman in her early forties asks me, barely masking the judgment in her tone.
See, Paradise wasn’t always like that. Once, not longer than three months before, it was a just a cute little bakery in Downtown. Till him. The asshole food critique who called Paradise and me, by extension, “Technically Perfect but Soulless.” And just like that, my customers turned to Amy’s cupcakes without a second thought.
“Yes, ma’am, the same.” I say politely.
“Oh dear.” The man, sitting between both woman says. “We heard it’s rough after the review.” he says after letting the silence hang for a moment.
I gave them a tight lipped smile. “Indeed.” I say and then look down at the closed box of the muffin I brought. “I’ve brought muffins. Would you like to try them?” I ask, placing the box before them.
I take the small china desert plates that Sophie has let me borrow and plate three muffins. The smell of the muffins makes me want to crawl back to my kitchen and bake till the my house is stuffed with sugary goddesses. But hey, I’ve got no money to buy flour for that. So here I am.
“Muffins? Ms Valdez, you know the stakes of this show? Michelin star chefs are auditioning for this and you think you could win us with some little muffins?” The woman on the right, Laura Kristain, world renowned chef and the ruthless judge of many cooking shows says with an almost scolding tone.
“Of course, Ms Kristain. But you wouldn’t know it till you taste it, right?” I say throwing her famous tagline at her, with a sickeningly sweet smile.
Her face reddens in embarrassment and she gestures me to bring the plates closer.
I set the plates of muffins before them, the muffins soft with their golden domes, each glistening under the room’s bright lights. The scent of orange blossom and honey wafts into the air, mingling with the faint tang of citrus and the warm nuttiness of pistachio.
Laura Kristain leans back in her chair, arms crossed, and her expression skeptical. “Muffins, seriously, girl?” she repeats, the word dripping with disdain. “You’re entering The Final Plate with muffins?”
I force myself to smile, but my nerves scream at me to shrink away. “Yes, Ms. Kristain. I believe they’ll be worth your time.”
Her brow arches, but she gestures for the other two judges to proceed.
The male judge, seated on Laura’s left, picks his up first, giving it a curious once-over before taking a bite. He closes his eyes for a moment and hums delightfully.
The other woman, Candice Hart, her name is, if I recall correctly, gives me a bright smile as eshe takes another bite.
The man’s brows shoot up, and he glances at Laura, who hesitates for a moment before breaking hers in half. The pistachio swirl inside glistens under the light, and she takes a delicate bite.
A moment of silence stretches across the room. Then Laura’s eyes widen ever so slightly. The male judge hums in approval, nodding as he takes another bite.
“Well,” Laura says finally, setting the muffin down and wiping her fingers on a napkin. “That’s... unexpected.”
Candice Hart leans forward. “What’s in this? It’s... complex.”
I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, my confidence seeping back in ever so slowly. “It’s a saffron and vanilla base, lightly sweetened with honey. The swirl inside is rosewater and pistachio cream. The glaze is orange blossom and a tiny bit of cardamom, and I finished it with a sprinkle of edible gold dust.”
Laura leans back, her lips twitching into what might almost be a smile. “Saffron, rosewater, orange blossom... you weren’t kidding about bold flavors.”
“The balance is impressive,” the male judge adds. “The saffron is subtle, the rosewater isn’t overwhelming, and that pistachio cream? That’s what makes it sing.”
“Tell me, how did you put the perfect swirl of cream inside?” Candice Hart asks, reaching for another muffin from the box, casually.
“I’m afraid, I can’t share such secrets, Ms Hart.” A genuine smile spreads across my face.
Laura picks up her half again, taking another bite. “I’ll admit, Ms. Valdez, when I saw muffins, I was ready to write you off. But this... this is good. Very good.”
Relief washes over me, but I keep my tone steady. “Thank you. Paradise means everything to me, and I wanted these muffins to reflect that.”
Laura tilts her head, her expression softening just a fraction. “Well, Ms. Valdez, you’ve surprised me today. These muffins are not just good—they’re exceptional. The flavors are bold yet harmonious, and the technique is impressive. You’ve taken something simple and elevated it. That’s exactly the kind of creativity we’re looking for on The Final Plate.”
The male judge nods in agreement. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. It’s not just about the dish—it’s about the story behind it. This feels personal, and it shows in the execution.”
I let out a shaky breath, my heart swelling with pride. “It is personal. Paradise is more than just a bakery to me—it’s my dream. These muffins represent everything I’ve poured into it, and I wanted them to tell my story.”
Candice Hart leans back in her seat, wiping her hands with a napkin, her sharp eyes softening. “You’ve certainly caught our attention, Ms. Valdez. Let’s see if you can keep it.”
Laura places the muffin down, her lips curving into a rare, genuine smile. “Welcome to The Final Plate, Amara. I look forward to seeing what else you’ve got.”
My heart leaps in my chest, and I fight the urge to break into a grin. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”
Candice Hart and the male judge smiles at me, while Laura Kristain gives a curt nod.
I gather my things and leave the room, the heart beginning to beat normally once more. For the first time in months, I feel like Paradise might have a chance.
Walking back through the bustling hallway, I clutch the empty muffin box to my chest, whispering under my breath, “You’ve got this, Amara. For Paradise.”
