ncak ncak ncak petit petit petit
I dashed up the pavement to the restaurant, the flyer clutched tightly in my hands. The restaurant was an old, shabby building with wilted flowers and vines draped over the restaurant door. It swung open and, exhausted, I flopped onto one of the leathery couches in the waiting area.
"Oh, Allison, there you are,” came a tired voice.
Two white curtains leading to the main kitchen were drawn back, and a blackhaired woman in a ruffled apron appeared. I tapped my watch, trying to emphasize what had happened, but before she could speak Dad swept back the curtains and realizing I was back, raised an eyebrow at my smile.
“Why do you look so eager?” he questioned.
I grinned, took out the flyer, and handed it to my parents, waiting in exhilaration.
“Well?” I whispered.
My book is called Bridge of Starlight. It’s a book about a normal girl, Charlie, a bit paranoid, whose whole world is thrown into a frenzy in one afternoon. As if the people she loves being abducted isn’t enough already, she finds herself in a secret magical organization that reveals hidden information to her. And her whole life changes. Just like that. Soon, she finds herself thrown into a conflict that she didn’t know about until that one fateful afternoon. And the question is: Will she succeed alongside her friends? Or will she suffer the consequences? My book is called Bridge of Starlight. It’s a book about a normal girl, Charlie, a bit paranoid, whose whole world is thrown into a frenzy in one afternoon. As if the people she loves being abducted isn’t enough already, she finds herself in a secret magical organization that reveals hidden information to her. And her whole life changes. Just like that. Soon, she finds herself thrown into a conflict that she didn’t know about until that one fateful afternoon. And the question is: Will she succeed alongside her friends? Or will she suffer the consequences?
“There is something we must…discuss,” Dad explained wearily. My hope wavering, I urged him on, my gaze turning to the oven gloves that most definitely needed washing. I knew my parents both worked long hours in the kitchen each day, especially with only Carlos also helping out in the kitchen, and I wished I could do something about it.
“Sorry, I was late,” I said meekly. “So. What’s happening? Has the cash register broken down again? Is-”
“No, no,” Dad interrupted, chuckling nervously and plopping down onto the sofa as well. “Something rather disturbing. Allison…” he and Mom exchanged suspicious glances, and I frowned. “This restaurant has been running a long time,” he continued, “and we’re struggling. This month’s earnings have not been enough to keep up the business.”
We are thrilled to introduce you to our newest published author, Sloka Edara! Sloka recently published her book, Bridge of Starlight, through our Fresh Ink publishing program. In Fresh Ink, youth authors with a completed draft of a novel are mentored through a chapter-by-chapter revision process. At the end of the program, the author is guided through the publication process resulting in an ink-and-paper book they can hold in their hands and share with other readers!
I couldn’t process what he had just said. I shook myself off, biting my lip.
“What are you saying?” I asked in a hushed tone.
“What we’re saying,” Mom sighed, “is that we need to start thinking about…finding new jobs. Closing.”
My mind practically exploded when I heard these words. The world spun around in dizzy circles, like an out-of-control fire.
“You want to shut down the restaurant?” I half-whispered half-shouted.
After years of diligent work, flipping pancakes on a griddle, and serving customers day after day my parents wanted to CLOSE?
“You can’t shut down. Just because this place is a little old, you can’t just give up! What about our house? Are we going to lose that too?”
“Okay, let’s calm down,” my dad said in his firm tone, which was very annoying because it always worked.
Today, however, I wasn’t going to listen. The place I had come home to every day after school, with the familiar pancake smells and sizzling sounds on the griddle, couldn’t just simply fail.
I continued on heatedly. “Maybe we need to get new recipes. Improve our pancakes!”
“Improve our pancakes! That’s very far-fetched,” Mom remarked. “Our problem is not the pancakes, our problem is business! No one comes these days. Grandma’s original recipe works perfectly fine I don’t understand how crispy brown, soft pancakes drizzled with maple syrup aren’t tempting enough! Besides, your father and I have already decided there are better job opportunities in other places in California than here in San Francisco. You have no idea how difficult it is to live here, let alone pay rent for the complex.”
“Like…Bakersfield,” Dad jumped in. “Plus, all the other bills, taxes...”
I rose up out of my chair, astounded. “That’s why this contest solves it! We enter, and if we win, problem solved!”
There was no way my parents were serious. Let alone close the business, but move somewhere entirely new with no idea whether they’d find another job?
“Young lady, you do not make the decisions,” barked my dad, who was now standing too. “It is already too late. Customers want to eat at fancy restaurants, not run-down ones.”
My brain whirled. I could not believe how closed-minded my parents were being. It wasn’t about how beautiful these other restaurants were it was about the quality of the food. And yes, maybe we did have money issues, but this was the solution.
“Whatever schemes you’re thinking about, it’s not going to work,” Mom added as if she had read my mind. “And there’s no way we could win a competition if we’re going up against the most victorious pancake restaurants in town. I’m planning to talk to the landlord soon anyways. So, there’s no point arguing. Now please, have you done your homework?”
That was about the least important thing I wanted to accomplish right now. Number one was to convince my parents not to close down the place that had been home forever. Taking one last look at my parents, I spun around and stomped up to my room.
Angrily, I climbed up the stairs leading to the square loft where I slept. It was a small complex above the restaurant with two bedrooms, a small kitchen and dining room, a bathroom, and a living room. It might not have been your ‘dream house’, but it was convenient for opening the restaurant early (not like there were long lines down the sidewalk). My bedroom had a simple twin bed, a giant bean bag, a desk, and a little bookshelf.
Pushing away the words that my parents wrongly believed in, I flumped into the bean bag, figuring I would just take a short nap before getting to work sweeping the kitchen floors. After taking one last hopeful glance at the crumpled flyer, I closed my eyes and drifted into sleep.
***
Clash…clash! An unnerving sound woke me, like cymbals in a marching band. I jolted awake, realizing in shock and horror that the sky was a dark blanket of murkiness. 3:20 AM. Oh no! Realizing that I had slept in far too late and forgot to do my cleaning, plus all the rest of my chores, I sat up, alarmed, worrying about what lectures my parents had in store.
The unnerving sound came again.
I wanted to go wake my parents, but an annoying little part of my mind had me out of my room, cautiously creaking down the stairs. The sound itself was coming from the kitchen. That was weird. No one could possibly be awake at this hour, let alone allowed into the restaurant at night. Adrenaline coursing through me, I hurried into the dark kitchen, the stone-tiled floor a burning cold against my feet.
“Hello?” I whispered apprehensively, glancing around.
My brain wondered why I had decided to follow a potentially dangerous person who was making about the most eerie sound ever.
I continued into the gloom, the blinking stove buttons my only source of light. The deathly noise was growing louder and more distinct, and, my breath caught in my throat, I peered cautiously around the corner of the griddle room.
It was completely empty, except for a small flash of movement from the house cat, Sassafras, who slunk between the cabinets. How had Sass even gotten down here? I squinted into the shadows, watching for any sign of life. The kitchen remained completely still, as if grumbling “there is nothing to see at three in the morning, Allison.”
I was beginning to have second thoughts about investigating around before morning, when a golden flare flickered from behind one of the griddles. The thing zoomed across the room, twirling and racing around indignantly. Without thinking, I grabbed a clean pan from the sink and, waiting for the thing to come around again, I scooped it up skillfully and slammed the lid on (when your parents own a pancake restaurant, it’s significant to know how to scoop pancakes up without making a mess). I jumped on top of the counter and daring to breathe, slowly tipped the lid off. To my surprise, the thing simply stood there, cowering in the pan.
It was…
A piece of paper.
A very simple piece of paper.
But it wasn’t blank for long. As soon as I placed it in my hand, I gasped as tiny black words formed in messy cursive across the scrap.
It read: “Do not worry, we have come to assist you. Pancake Paradise Awaits! -Your Crepe Chef”
I frowned, the strange words echoing in my mind. I began to feel like I was hallucinating when all of a sudden, the piece of paper buzzed and swirled around. Startled, I watched as it circled the refrigerator vigorously. What did it want?
The paper unrolled itself, revealing another message in black ink. “Open the fridge”.
“Ohhhhh”, I thought, realization drawing to me. Excitedly, I grasped the two handles, wondering if I was ready for what lay ahead. Should I risk it?
But the paper already seemed impatient, so, taking a deep breath, I pulled. The door opened, and bright light flooded through. Blindly, I reached out, searching for the piece of paper. But it had mysteriously vanished. Now I was engulfed in golden spotlights which did not fit the dark setting I was in. I was lifted up, swirled around dizzily, then glittered away before you could say this-is-absolutely-freaking-me-out.
I awoke to bustling sounds and loud clattering noises. Slowly, my hand touched a silky, cloud material. Tentatively, I opened my eyes, powerful lights greeting me. The room was huge, with spiraling golden towers reaching to the ceiling. Banners with messages were strung across the cloud-like walls, and there was a layout of four different sections with kitchens.
There was one countertop for each kitchen, with cooking and baking supplies in piles everywhere. There were bottles of chocolate, golden syrup, whipped cream, and containers holding juicy mangos and ripe strawberries! Dirty black skillets and pans were dumped into the sinks, then washed and dried at another station. Along the countertops were baking stations, covered with butter sticks, sugar, mixing bowls, and spilled containers of flour.
Aside from the interesting and tasty-looking dishes of chocolate-drizzled, raspberries and cream, and apple cinnamon crepes, the most fascinating feature of all were the creatures themselves. Instead of people, they were little round pancakes with black arms, legs, and eyes. They almost completely resembled actual pancakes, except for the fact that they were alive. Real-life pancakes stood on little stools, each scurrying around flipping crepes, cleaning up the tables, washing kitchenware, or issuing orders to one another.
But the biggest pancake of all was a pancake three times her assistants’ height, who wore a puffy chef hat upon her head.
“A human!” she cried with a distinct French accent as she approached me.
“Visitor!” squeaked one pancake.
“Guest!” shouted another.
“Company!” squealed another.
“Now, now, settle down,” the pancake chef warned them. “We must not overwhelm our guest.” She turned to me and smiled. “I am the great la Crepe herself, chef of Pancake Paradise!”
As if on cue, another shimmering banner unrolled itself and planted against one of the walls. It read, WELCOME TO PANCAKE PARADISE: WHERE PANCAKES AND CREPES BECOME MAGICAL!
La Crepe swatted the air modestly. “Those who come here are looking for one thing how to improve their pancakes! Please try one of our delicious specialties,” she insisted as a little pancake held out an enticing plate of crispy strawberry cheesecake crepes to me.
“Unique taste!” echoed a pancake.
“Scrumptious dessert!” yelled another.
The irresistible flavor lingered in my mouth after I had gobbled up the mouthwatering treat.
“After you’ve tried and learned our ingredients, you will be an expert in pancakes!” explained la Crepe, obviously pleased with my approval.
“Why am I here?” I asked in confusion. “First there was this magical piece of paper, then a refrigerator portal…”
“That is our way of transportation,” the chef mused, grinning. “And I suppose magic would seem a little odd in your country. Spain, is it? Canada?”
“California, United States,” I informed her. “You know, San Francisco?”
“Ah, of course, Waffle filled me in on all the details of your situation. To win the contest and save your restaurant, you have a lot of work to do. My dear assistant will help guide you from here.”
The chef turned to a crispy brown waffle, which I assumed was Waffle, who bustled towards her in the crowd. For a waffle in a swarm of pancakes, it didn’t look out of place at all.
“At your service, Allison,” she panted, beckoning me to follow her.
As she led me through the mobs of pancakes, a new ferocity seized me. I was determined to use all my energy just to convince my parents to not admit defeat this easily.
***
Waffle led me past shiny double doors to another whole kitchen display. There were three sections, each with pancake chefs all busily cooking.
Connecting the sections was a long, golden conveyer belt complete with plates with toppings like pumpkin puree, apple curd, and lemon cheesecake. As we passed down the aisle, I watched in interest as some chefs deftly flipped their pancakes while others diligently laid glassy strawberries on top a thin Crepe.
“Each section is based on a value,” Waffle piped up. “There’s passion, imagination, and persistence. The ingredients are still important, but these values are truly magical. They keep you inspired throughout your cooking journey.”
She snapped her fingers as she talked, and a white apron appeared for me. I quickly slipped it on and followed her to the front of the conveyor belt. Now, up close, I realized how much more detailed it was, with neat labels on each item, and perfect amounts of the powdered ingredients, which all, of course, were on levitating bowls and plates.
I was so focused on the magic of the belt that I was jostled when Waffle placed a pan in front of me and an assortment of butter, sugar, flour, eggs, and buttermilk. She gestured to the conveyor belt. And so I went, trying to pick out the tastiest looking combinations (which, it turned out, just made me hungrier). Resting my hands on the shiny countertop, I knew I would be here a while.
***
“Each little detail perfects your work,” commented la Crepe as she walked by, processing a bite of my finished crepe. “The texture is a little off, but good job.”
She went over to thank Waffle, and I did have to admit, after hours of frustrating work and Waffle being skeptical about everything, the banana Nutella flavor I had chosen turned out pretty well.
All too soon, I glanced at my watch and gasped at how fast time raced by. 3:00 PM. Waffle escorted me back to the main room, where la Crepe rocked back and forth in her floating chair thoughtfully.
“You show much talent,” she complimented me. “I believe with your effort, you can win any competition. Because of this, the least I can do is grant you a reward.”
Full of curiosity and newfound hope, I thanked the chef and stood, ready to be carried away.
As I was whisked off the ground, la Crepe called, “Do not forget the importance of everything you learned!” And then my last vision of Pancake Paradise vanished as I glittered away.
The first thing I noticed when I returned to the kitchen was a wooden container full of new rubber spatulas, whisks, and more complicated baking tools. Aside were stacks of bowls and pans. There was a little note scribbled in the same black writing as I had seen on the piece of paper earlier: “Keep in mind the importance of persistence. –la Crepe”
I realized it was nearly 4:00 PM, which I wondered if this meant that I had missed school, or if everyone else in San Francisco had magically sped up life until now. But I supposed I didn’t want my parents to know I was entering the contest without their consent until after I won (hopefully). Slipping the note into my pocket, I hurried to prepare for the contest.
Two hours on the clock!” declared Mr. Baker, the head of Foodmaster Hall, propping himself at the tasting table.
It was exactly 5:00 PM, and the five other teams that showed up all had glanced at me suspiciously when I had entered. Trying to ignore their whispers, I hurried to the supply cabinet and, remembering what Waffle had taught me, grabbed a stick of butter, flour, granulated sugar, salt, buttermilk, eggs, vanilla extract, and cinnamon.
The new tools worked almost too smoothly, between measuring and scooping ingredients. But when I examined them closely, they just stared innocently back at me. Slowly, my crepes came to life. While accidentally spilling the eggs and the somewhat impossible task of cleaning them up, my mind replayed what Waffle had said: “Failure is part of success.”
Enthusiasm returning to me, I began to sift all the dry ingredients and was blending everything together when Mr. Baker announced the ninety-minute mark. In the dark audience, the crowd talked in low whispers, and I concentrated hard on finishing my entry.
My hands were tired from beating the ingredients, but I pushed forward, knowing my entry would decide the future for Flippy Pancakes. As I let the batter sit in the fridge for thirty minutes, I snagged an oven and prepared the crepe pan, just like what Waffle had done.
***
Minutes flew by in a blur. Soon, I was flipping the thin crust, realizing how tricky it was without Waffle’s help. Luckily, the crepe wrapping seemed to come out in one whole piece. One crepe tortilla became four, then gradually, an entire stack of golden-speckled brown crepes appeared on the plate.
To create the filling, I let the imaginative possibilities guide me. Thinking back to the conveyor belt with creative desserts, I selected the Chantilly cream flavor. At forty minutes left, several teams groaned or shouted angrily at one another. Now that I thought about it, I was glad I entered alone.
After repetitive tries, the chunks turned into a smooth cream, the peaches were sliced, and by twenty minutes, the filling was ready. I eagerly smoothed out my crepes and rolled a perfect amount of filling inside each one. For the finishing touch, I placed a few extra peaches on a swirl of cream to decorate the crepes. “Five!” shouted Mr. Baker. “Four, three, two, one! HANDS OFF!”
Ripples of excitement swept the crowd below as they strained to check out the five teams’ creations.
Two official taste testers walked importantly over to the testing table where Mr. Baker sat, going down the line and taking a bite of each pancake. Somehow, my crepe looked out of place amongst the other classic pancake entries. There were several nods along the way, until, finally, they reached the last one—mine.
Holding my breath, I squeezed my eyes anxiously and stood alone by my crepe, watching as they chewed musingly. Their expressions remained impassive as they swallowed. I bit my lip as they huddled together and debated.
At last, the time came. The judges stood on a podium with Mr. Baker, facing the contestants and the audience.
“Congratulations,” came Mr. Baker’s voice. “Each entry did very well. Today, however, there was one that particularly stood out one with creativity, style, and perfection.”
The other teams looked pleadingly up at him. I clenched my hands nervously.
“I would like to present…the miraculous pancake chef Allison Yang!!”
The whole world blasted away inside of me. It felt as though I had won the crepe-lottery. An eruption of rainbow streamers sprinkled down into the waves of applause from the audience. I looked down, partly embarrassed and incredibly astonished. My home, the restaurant, everything had been on the line and depended on this. But when I looked up again, it wasn’t the judges I smiled at, or the screaming crowd it was the little slip of paper in my pocket that was the reason for my victory. ***
“Allison! Where have you been? This is unbelievable!” Mom’s sharp voice drifted towards me as I returned home with two very important pieces of paper.
She stood, along with Dad, at the bottom of the stairs in her PJs, glaring at me.
“Hi!” I said cheerfully, handing her the check casually.
Mom’s eyes darted furiously from one side to the other, and then she gasped.
“Rewind. Rewind.” She swallowed hard, looking disbelievingly at Dad.
I grinned, calmly showing her the advertisement paper.
“H-how?” Dad stuttered, pacing worriedly. “This is not real. I am dreaming.”
Mom turned to me for an equally awestruck look. These were the exact expressions I had hoped for.
“Let’s just say,” I smiled mischievously, “that it all started with a little magic.”
