Chapter Two
Two
Rashad White leaned against his godmother Anna’s kitchen counter, carefully stirring a broth he’d been perfecting for an hour. The kitchen was his favorite space. Where he felt most comfortable. A personal sanctuary, one that had saved his life.
He dipped a teaspoon into the gently boiling liquid, blew away the steam, and then slurped.
Closing his eyes, he let the broth sit on his tongue, looking for the perfect blend of sweet, spice, and sour.
His parole officer preferred he look for a job.
Unfortunately, being a convicted felon made that a hard ask.
No matter. Rashad aimed higher. He never again wanted someone else to have control over any part of his life.
He didn’t want to work for a boss. He wanted to be his own.
Thinking about what had or hadn’t happened that got him locked up for three years, and the person who hadn’t felt he was worth waiting for, made him heat up like the broth he was boiling.
Replaying some of his family’s actions or lack thereof while locked up only fanned the flames.
He shut down the nonproductive trips down memory lane and refocused on food.
After adjusting the spices and adding more ginger paste, he dipped the spoon he’d rinsed off back into the brew.
He savored the hot liquid as it slid down his throat.
Clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
Caught the heat that crept up at the back of the bite.
Subtle. Unexpected. Nice. He nodded, remembering his mentor’s instructions, Taste with your heart as well as your taste buds.
Passion was often the difference between a good dish and a great one.
No one would ever accuse Rashad of having a lackluster attitude about anything.
He brought the heat wherever he went, from the basketball court to the recording studio to the kitchen to the bedroom.
Words like intense and dramatic were often used to describe him.
Rashad Jamir White was a passionate man.
When Anna had first approached him about catering her bestie’s fiftieth birthday party, Rashad had hesitated.
Not only was she one of his favorite people on the planet but she’d believed in him when he hadn’t believed in himself.
Anna had been instrumental in his much-needed relocation and supported him once he arrived.
She’d helped him with the interviews and paperwork that allowed him to leave the state of California and complete his parole in Missouri.
That in itself was no easy feat. There’d been so much red tape that at times he’d felt like Anna was Moses trying to part the Red Sea and lead Rashad to a promised land of biblical proportions.
For the menu, Monique, Anna’s best friend, had requested Chinese.
Almost immediately the fear of failure crept in.
Strangers rejecting his food was one thing.
The person who’d been convinced to hire him by his godmother was quite another.
Rashad was a chef in his own mind, true enough, who’d regularly prepared meals for a large, hungry crowd.
He couldn’t hang prestigious certificates or a framed culinary degree on the wall, but he knew one thing: he could cook.
Everyone told him his food was the best. Eventually confidence, not cockiness, helped him accept this as fact.
But this situation was different. The success or failure of an entire dinner would rest on his shoulders.
There’d be no mentor to hide behind. After almost two months in this new world called the Midwest, he’d find out if one of his passions, cooking, could sustain him.
Keep him out of trouble. Cats had nine lives.
In the system, men like Rashad didn’t get that many.
While California had relaxed the so-called tough on crime three strikes law that saw thousands of young men with minor felonies locked up for life, Rashad didn’t want to take any chances.
For him, the third time wasn’t the charm but potentially the end of being a free man.
For a very long time. When he heard the sound of those steel doors clink shut behind him, Rashad vowed to never go back.
Ever. He’d breathe free air for the rest of his life. By any means necessary.
When he admitted his initial trepidation about catering the party to Anna, she wasn’t having it.
“As you can see,” she’d said, placing a meaty fist on an ample hip and running her other hand over her belly, “I’ve eaten a good meal or two in my day. You make champagne-level food on a tap-water budget. I’d put your plate next to anybody’s anywhere.”
Anna’s words felt good, but Rashad wasn’t a fool.
He knew there were chefs who could cook rings around him.
Her pep talk worked enough for Rashad to remember his reasons for taking the catering job: his empty pockets and the need to find work.
Having gainful employment was a condition of his parole.
Nichole, his California parole officer, and Thomas Turner, her Missouri counterpart who handled periodic, in-person visits, were pushing him to find a steady job soon.
Maybe one of Anna’s friends knew somebody who was looking to hire a man with exceptional skills honed through experiences most would deem unsuitable for a résumé.
Satisfied with the taste of his unique concoction, he reached for a package of ramen, a staple where he’d been housed before relocating to Kansas City.
He tossed aside the square foil pouch of prepackaged spices and slid the dry square of noodles into the broth.
A Kendrick Lamar song blasted from a phone on the opposite counter before his ringtone interrupted.
Rashad smiled, tapped the speaker and answered as he placed it beside him, and continued stirring the soup.
“What up, cuz?”
“I’m a squirrel in your world, bro. Whatchu doin’?”
“Cookin’,” Rashad replied without hesitation.
He openly shared his culinary passion with most people, but not everybody.
In certain circles, there was still the ignorant notion that men didn’t belong in the kitchen.
His cousin Juke and most of his friends appreciated his skills.
His culinary chops had offered him protection behind bars.
However, if some of the crew he once ran around with knew of his love for the kitchen and proficiency with herbs, spices, and cooking utensils, they might revoke his cool card and his street cred would be shot.
“You get a job?” Juke asked.
“Yeah. Sorta.” Rashad told Juke about the catering gig for the fiftieth birthday party he’d landed courtesy of Anna. “The guest of honor’s favorite food is Chinese. That’s not my usual wheelhouse, so I’m trying out a few things.”
“You’ve got this, cousin. Everything you make tastes good.”
Juke was a straight shooter, his compliment high praise. “But don’t let that take you off your other goal.”
“What’s that?”
“You forgot already? The music, man.”
“Music is who I am, Juke. That’ll always be there.”
“It better. You’re too good, Ra God. Don’t ever abandon your pen.”
Rashad continued cooking with Juke’s words swirling in his mind like noodles in boiling broth.
His parole officer Nichole wanted him to make a living.
Rashad wanted to make a life. As he cleaned up the kitchen with Kendrick rapping in the background, he pondered on whether or not he could have it all, feed his passions for both food and music.
Rashad didn’t know, but he knew one thing for sure. It was time to find out.