Matthew's Story

Matthew’s Story

Peter K. Young

 

Matthews Story

Copyright © 2025 by Peter K. Young

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Street Smart Resources

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Cover Design Kat McGee (coversbykat.com)

April 2025 | 1^st Edition

 

 

Chapter 1

Every morning, young Matthew Conner, eight years old, would wake up in his trundle bed in the one-bedroom apartment he shared with his father. He'd brush his teeth and comb his dark hair, all the while making funny faces at himself in the mirror. Matty was a happy, cheerful kid. Next, he would get dressed and run as fast as he could the three blocks to the cafe, where his papa worked, to have his breakfast.

He liked to sit on a high stool in the cafe’s kitchen and watch as his papa worked his magic.

"Good food is magic, Matty," his father would say as he mixed the batter for his blueberry pancakes. "Special magic to everyone all across the whole world. Why, even the Queen of England herself has to pay homage to the cooks who make her morning oatmeal and crumpets.

In the olden days, kings would rate their wealth by the richness of the delicious food on their banquet tables. One time a king even knighted a cut of beef it was so good. “I dub thee, ‘Sir Loin’.” I bet he knighted the castle’s cook, too. That's the magic of food. It takes the wizardry of guys like you and me to cook it.”

He laughed like he always did when he told Matty that story and plated a Spanish omelet for Matty’s breakfast. "Can you tell what I did differently today?"

Matty would taste and say solemnly, "Papa, yesterday you cooked mine with jalapeno peppers and this one has none." And his daddy would shout to Alice and Mae the waitresses, "He did it! My boy, Matty, is going to be a master chef one day. World mark down my words, you'll see!"

And young Matty would laugh with the joy of his life.

Then came the bad day. When he got to the restaurant. A fire truck was there and a crowd of people and an ambulance.

His papa was gone.

And so was the magic in Matty’s world.

"No next of kin?" The social worker flipped through the papers. Her voice was hushed, but Matty could hear her from where he sat on the plastic chair outside her office.

"None that we can locate," replied the police officer. "Father was James Conner, single parent. Mother died when the boy was an infant. No grandparents, no aunts or uncles."

Matty stared at his sneakers—the ones his Papa had bought him just last month, saying he was growing like a weed. The laces were undone, but he made no move to tie them.

Marco, the cafe’s manager, had stayed with him at the hospital while the doctors spoke in low voices about "massive cardiac arrest" and "nothing could be done." But Marco had a large family of his own and couldn’t take in an eight-year-old boy, no matter how many times he'd ruffled Matty's hair and called him "piccolo."

"We'll find you a family to live with soon," the social worker promised, kneeling in front of him with a smile that didn't reach her tired eyes. "But for now, you'll stay at Horizon House. It's a nice place with other children."

Matty nodded because that seemed to be what she wanted. He clutched his Spiderman backpack while she took his little suitcase filled with his clothes—and followed her to the car.

Horizon House was a square brick building with small windows and a chain-link fence around a patchy yard. Nothing like the cozy apartment above the Chinese grocery where he and papa had lived with the fire escape that they had turned into their own tiny herb garden.

"This is Matthew," the social worker announced to the group home supervisor, a large woman named Ms. Winters, with a voice that boomed even when she was trying to be gentle. "He's joining you."

Ms. Winters smiled, revealing a gold tooth. "Welcome, Matthew. We're just about to have lunch. Are you hungry?"

Matty wasn't. His stomach felt like it was full of rocks, but he nodded because saying no seemed harder.

The dining room smelled wrong—not like his papa's kitchen, with its aromas of garlic and herbs and butter browning in a pan. This place smelled of bleach and old cooked food smells.

"Meatloaf today," Ms. Winters said, steering him to a table where four other children sat. None of them looked up as he approached. "Children, this is Matthew. Make him feel welcome."

The meatloaf was tasteless and the mashed potatoes were too salty. Matty took one bite and couldn't manage another.

"You gonna eat that?" asked a boy his own age across from him, already reaching for Matty's tray.

Matty pushed it toward him and watched as the boy shoveled the food into his mouth, not tasting it, like he was just filling.

The room had two sets of bunk beds. Three other boys shared it with him. Their names—Derek, Luis and Jayden—washed over him without sticking.

"You get the bottom bunk." Luis said, pointing to the empty bunk.

"Okay," Matty whispered, his first words since arriving.

"Watch out. Derek pees the bed sometimes."

Derek, a freckled redhead who looked no older than six, punched Luis in the arm. "Shut up! I do not!"

Ms. Winters showed him where to put his few belongings. There was a small dresser drawer for each boy and a communal closet.

"Bathroom's down the hall," she explained. "Showers are in the morning, five minutes each. Lights out at eight-thirty for your age group."

She left, and Matty sat on the edge of his assigned bed, still clutching his backpack. He'd never had to share a room before. In their apartment, his trundle bed had pulled out from under his father's, and they'd lie there in the dark, his papa talking about a new dish or laughing about the picky customer who'd sent back his soup for being too spicy.

"What you got in there?" Derek asked, pointing to the backpack.

Matty hugged it closer. "Nothing."

"Okay," Luis said, sitting beside him. "Look, I got this GI Joe figure." He grabbed an action figure with a missing arm from his bunk. "My brother got it for me before he went to juvie."

Matty hesitated, then unzipped his backpack and showed the little boy his papa’s pocket watch, a tin measuring cup and a tattered recipe book.

"Cool," Luis said.

Matty nodded and tucked it away.

That night, after the overhead lights had been switched off and only the dim glow from the hallway seeped under the door, Matty lay awake. Unfamiliar sounds filled the room—Jaden’s soft snores, Luis muttering in his sleep, and the creaking of the bunk above him as Derek tossed and turned in the thrall of a nightmare.

In the apartment, there had been different sounds—the hum of the refrigerator, the distant honking of taxis, his papa's gentle breathing. Sometimes, his papa would work the late shift and Matty would fall asleep to the TV playing on low volume, knowing his papa would be there in the morning, the smell of coffee perking and bacon frying.

Now, there was only the harsh smell of some kind of cleaning chemical and the hollow feeling in his belly.

Carefully, making sure the others were asleep, Matty reached under his pillow for the pocket watch. He gripped it, feeling its weight, imagining it still warm from his father's pocket.

"Food is magic, Matty," his papa's voice echoed in his memory. "And we wizards who cook well are special."

But there was no magic here. No wizardry in the cafeteria's offerings. No happy smiles and laughter.

For the first time since the ambulance, since Marco’s words "I'm so sorry, son" had landed on him, Matty began to cry, huge sobs tore out of him he clutched papa’s pocket watch—the only bit of his papa's magic he had left.

And as sleep finally claimed him, Matty made a silent promise to his papa. Someday, somehow, he would find that magic again

 

Chapter 2

Eight years later, sixteen-year-old Matthew Conner's clear blue eyes looked out at the world with reserved cynicism.

He knew three things to be true.

1) Nothing is for free, everything comes with a cost.

2) Nobody cares—He was the only person he could count on.

3) Self pity is a curse that makes you weak.

Those three were first among other lessons he had learned the hard way.

Matthew was big for his age, his handsome face marred by crooked nose-twice broken nose from two desperate brawls with a kid named Butch who had stolen his father’s watch. Butch was now serving time in juvie after he stabbed another kid in a fight over who got the top bunk.

They had all learned not to mess with Matthew.

He walked to the Chicago Farmer’s Market from Roosevelt High School, where he excelled despite his circumstances, or maybe because of them. A fifth-grade teacher named Miss Brown had told him over and over that knowledge can't be taken from you. Meaningful words to a kid who had nothing but a busted pocket watch, a battered recipe book, a tin cup and a distant memory of a magical kitchen.

The late afternoon sun bathed the farmers’ market in a golden light that made the weathered wooden stalls look somehow magical. Matthew adjusted his backpack higher on his shoulder and entered through the east entrance to Mr. Pietro's flower stand where the Easter lilies and roses perfumed the air.

"Ah, Matty, my young friend!" Pietro called out, his Italian accent still thick in spite of forty years in the United States. "Come, come. I have something new to show you." He beckoned Matthew closer with gnarled hands stained green from decades of cutting stems.

Matthew approached with his customary wariness, but there was a softness in his eyes reserved only for this place, these people.

"Saffron crocus," Mr. Pietro said, gesturing to a bucket of flowers with delicate, elongated petals in vibrant orange and yellow. " The stamens give us the spice saffron. Takes more than fifty thousand of these plants to make a pound of the saffron that turns the risotto golden."

He always offered Matthew a taste of whatever edible flowers he had. All the long time market venders knew Matthews and his dreams of being a chef.

"Thank you for showing me, Mr. Pietro." He moved on with a nod, following his usual route.

Next was Mrs. Saanvi's spice and tea store, a riot of colors and smells that always made Matthew's heart beat faster. The middle-aged Indian woman was grinding something in a mortar and pestle, the rhythmic scraping a percussion note to the sitar music playing in the background.

"Cardamom," Matthew said before she could speak, identifying the distinctive scent.

Mrs. Saanvi looked up, her face breaking into a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. "Right again! You have the nose of a master chef, Matthew." She set down her work and reached beneath her counter, pulling out a small paper packet. "Try this one. It's a masala blend my grandmother taught me. Secret recipe," she winked.

Matthew took the packet carefully. These small lessons were precious—more knowledge that couldn’t be stolen. "What's it for?"

"Lamb," she said. "Or goat, if you can find it. But chicken works too. I slow cook with tomatoes and onions." She demonstrated with her hands a universal language of cooking that Matthew understood perfectly.

He handed the packet back to her. "Thank you, I'll remember."

Three stalls down, the Ramirez brothers were arguing good-naturedly over a crate of tomatoes, their rapid-fire Spanish punctuated with exaggerated gestures.

"Too over-ripe for salad," the older brother, Miguel, was saying as Matthew approached. "But perfect for sauce."

"Hey, Chef!" The younger brother, Alejandro, spotted Matthew and waved him over. It was their nickname for him, both teasing and respectful at once. "Settle an argument. These pear tomatoes—sauce or salad?"

Matthew picked one up, feeling its weight, noting the slight give under his fingers. He brought it to his nose, another habit that had earned him strange looks at school but was perfectly normal here. "Sauce," he agreed. "They're too ripe for a salad. They'd make everything soggy."

Miguel slapped his brother's shoulder triumphantly. "See? The Chef knows." He selected one of the ripest specimens and handed it to Matthew. "Payment for your expert consultation."

Matthew hesitated. He was uncomfortable with gifts.

Miguel saw the hesitation and misinterpreted it. "No charge," he insisted. "Consider it payment for your professional opinion." He winked and turned back to his brother, ending any possibility of refusal.

Matthew took the tomato. Even if he couldn't use them properly, he could still enjoy them with a dash of salt, stolen bites of summer in his otherwise bland diet.

“Gracias, Miguel. I bet it will taste wonderful with a touch of salt.”

The fish section was next, Matthew's favorite part. Mrs. Chen's stall was immaculate, her seafood arranged on beds of ice with military precision. Unlike many of the other vendors who saw his interest as cute or novel, Mrs. Chen had taken him seriously from day one.

"You're late today," she observed without looking up from the mackerel she was scaling with quick, efficient movements.

"Tutoring a couple of football players." Matthew said, watching her hands. Every visit was a free lesson in knife skills.

She grunted acknowledgment. "Yelloweye today. Very fresh. Come see."

Matthew moved around the counter—a privilege granted to no other—and peered into the display case. Two rock-fish lay there, their orange scales glistening, catching the light.

"Perfect fresh," he murmured, examining the red gills, the clear eyes. "How would you cook them?"

Mrs. Chen's methodical movements paused as she considered. "There are many ways, but I would sauté with ginger, scallion, splash of good soy sauce. Simple is best with fish this fresh."

Matthew nodded, filing away the information. "Can I fillet one for you?" It wasn't a question.

Without waiting for permission, he washed his hands at the small sink behind the counter, then selected a knife from her collection—a razor sharp boning knife, his favorite. Mrs. Chen watched critically as he scaled and filleted the fish with practiced movements that showed he had done it before.

"Better," she said when he finished, which from her was high praise. "Still too hesitant on the backbone cut, but better than most."

The fish went into the display case, and Matthew washed the knife, then his hands again. As he dried them on a paper towel, Mrs. Chen handed him a small book. “Copper River Salmon recipes I got from my fish monger.” she said curtly. “Thought you might like.”

It was their ritual. Whatever marketing materials she got, she saved for him. More knowledge to add to his collection.

"Thank you," he said, the words inadequate for what her thoughtful attention meant to him.

His last stop was always the same—Jack's Bakery stall, where the day’s unsold bread was being discounted as closing time approached. The smell of sourdough and cinnamon drew him like a magnet.

"There he is!" Jack boomed, his voice as big as his belly. "My best customer!" The former Navy cook had taken a shine to Matthew from the first time he'd correctly identified cardamom as the ingredient in his Pulla Bread.

"Hi, Mr. Jack," Matthew said, eying the remaining loaves. There was a dark rye he hadn't tried before.

"Got something special today," Jack said, reaching beneath the counter. He produced a notebook, dog-eared and stained. "Found my old recipe journal from my Navy Days. Thought you might want to copy some down."

Matthew's eyes widened. Recipes were gold in his world—knowledge that transformed ingredients into something magical.

"Really?" he asked, his usual reserve cracking.

Jack nodded, pushing the notebook toward him. “Take your time. Things are a bit slow today.”

For the next twenty minutes, Matthew sat on an overturned milk crate behind Jack's stall, copying recipes into his recipe notebook—one he guarded carefully. Jack worked around him, breaking down displays and packing unsold bread into donation boxes for the local shelter.

"You should think about volunteering at the shelter kitchen," Jack suggested, not for the first time. "They're always short-handed, and maybe they'd even let you cook."

Matthew nodded noncommittally. The idea was appealing—a proper kitchen, real ingredients—but the group home had strict schedules and the shelter's location across town made it complicated.

As the market shut down around them, vendors calling final prices and breaking down stalls, Matthew closed his notebook. He'd copied seven recipes, his neat handwriting squeezing every precious word onto the paper.

Jack handed him a paper bag. "Day-old sourdough and a cinnamon roll that's a bit squashed. Still good though."

Matthew took it with a nod of thanks. It had become their understanding: Mr. Jack would always offer, Matthew would always accept, despite his reservations about handouts. A mark of trust on his part that neither mentioned.

He had learned the hard way that handouts made you weak.

The sun was lower now, casting long shadows between the stalls. Matthew shouldered his backpack., He'd have to hurry to make it back to Horizon House before dinner check-in, though the meal itself—always bland, always institutional—held little appeal.

"See you Friday?" Jack asked, folding the last tablecloth.

"You bet," Matthew replied. Friday was delivery day. He could pick up an extra buck or two helping the vendors.

He turned to leave, but stopped when Jack called after him. "Hey, Matty, I almost forgot. The cleanup job. I heard Edwards is looking for someone. Julio quit on Monday. Pays good, I hear."

Matthew brightened. A rare grin tugged the corners of his mouth upward. "That’s great news. I will."

He walked away from the market, his stride purposeful. In his backpack was a notebook full of recipes and techniques, knowledge gleaned from vendors who saw past his guarded exterior. The market people had slowly become his quasi-family.

 

 

Chapter 3

Matthew moved methodically through his cleaning ritual, a dance he'd perfected over the last year. At seventeen, he'd grown taller still, his shoulders broadening from hauling crates and scrubbing down stalls. His broken nose gave his face character—at least that's what Mrs. Chen told him on the rare occasions she offered personal observations.

"You missed a spot," Miguel Ramirez called, pointing to a splatter of tomato pulp on the corner of his stall.

Matthew flicked his wet rag at it without missing a beat. "I was getting to it."

"Sure you were," Miguel laughed. "Here, don't forget these." He handed over a paper bag bulging with tomatoes, bruised but perfectly usable. "For the soup today, no?"

"Yeah, Mrs. Geigle's letting me make the minestrone soup," Matthew said, unable to keep his excitement disguised. After six months of chopping, peeling, and watching—always watching—the head cook at St. Vincent's soup kitchen was finally giving him a shot at one of the main entrees.

"Ah! The big promotion!" Miguel clapped him on the shoulder. "You must use some zucchini and yellow squash, and swiss chard too." He waved at Alejandro, who handed over a half case of the dark green heads.

"Fresh picked this day," Alejandro said solemnly, as if bestowing a sacred gift.

Matthew nodded, tucking the oregano into his already bulging backpack. "Thanks. I will."

He finished his cleaning circuit, collecting stained cardboard for recycling and hosing down the concrete where necessary. At each stall, vendors pressed ingredients into his hands—the ritual that had begun ten months ago when he started volunteering at the shelter was now an established tradition. Mrs. Saanvi offered a small glass jar of her custom Italian spice blend. Jack handed over a loaf of day-old sourdough with a wink.

"For your croutons," he said. "Way better than that grocery store bread they use."

Old Man Pietro, as always, insisted Matthew take a few edible flowers. "For the presentation," he insisted. "We eat first with the eyes, then the nose, then the mouth."

By the time Matthew finished his rounds, his backpack and an additional canvas tote were filled with the market's generosity—their contribution to St. Vincent's evening meal service, channeled through the quiet teenager they'd all collectively adopted.

At 4:30, Mr. Savage's battered pickup truck rattled into the loading zone. The retired history teacher volunteered at St. Vincent's three days a week and had been giving Matthew rides since his first day there.

"Ready to make culinary history?" Mr. Savage called through the open window, his gray hair sticking out in all directions as usual.

Matthew's mouth quirked in what passed for a smile these days. "It's just soup."

"Ah, but it's your soup," Mr. Savage corrected, helping him load the market bounty into the truck bed. "Your show tonight, kid."

As usual, Mr. Savage filled the fifteen-minute drive to St. Vincent’s with running commentary on the day’s news, local gossip and historical parallels that only seemed to make sense to him. Matthew listened with half an ear, mentally reviewing his cooking strategy. The recipe was his papa's—right out of his tattered recipe book.

"Nervous?" Mr. Savage asked as they pulled into St. Vincent's parking lot.

Matthew shook his head, though his stomach tightened at the prospect of taking over one of the kitchen's main burner. "I've made it before." Just never for sixty people. Never with an audience.

Mrs. Geigle was waiting at the kitchen's back entrance, her imposing frame blocking the doorway, arms crossed over her floral apron. Her stern expression—the one that had intimidated Matthew when he first arrived at St. Vincent's—he now read it as welcoming.

"You're late," she announced, though they were on time.

"Traffic," Mr. Savage replied cheerfully, immune to her gruffness after twenty years of friendship.

Mrs. Geigle snorted and turned her attention to Matthew. "Got everything you need?"

He nodded, hoisting the bags of produce.

"Good. Everyone's prepped and waiting for the maestro." She stepped aside to let them enter, her mouth twitching with a tiny smile.

The kitchen was a hub of activity, volunteers chopping, stirring, and arranging trays for the evening's service. The setup wasn’t professional—donated, mismatched equipment showed signs of heavy use—but it was functional and, most importantly, it was a proper kitchen where Matthew could learn and cook.

"The soup station is all yours," Mrs. Geigle said, leading him to the large stock pot already positioned on the industrial stove. "I've got water heating and the mirepoix ready." She gestured to a hotel pan of diced carrots, celery, and onions. "The rest is up to you."

Matthew set his bags down on the prep table and began unpacking, arranging ingredients in order of use. The kitchen noise faded as he slipped into the familiar rhythm of prep work, his knife moving with the precision Mrs. Chen and later Mrs. Geigle had drilled into him over countless sessions.

He didn't notice the gradual hush that fell over the kitchen as other volunteers paused to watch him work, his movements fluid and economical. Even Mrs. Geigle, who normally barked orders continuously during meal prep, stood back and observed.

The zucchini and summer squash were diced into perfect quarter-inch cubes. The bruised tomatoes were blanched, peeled, and crushed by hand. Garlic was minced fine, basil chiffonaded, and Jack's sourdough transformed into rustic croutons tossed with olive oil and toasting in the oven.

When Matthew finally looked up from sweating the mirepoix, he found a semicircle of volunteers watching him.

"Don't you all have work to do?" Mrs. Geigle snapped, breaking the spell. "This isn't Top Chef. It's dinner for hungry people who don't care if their soup was made by a teenager with his fancy knife skills."

But Matthew caught the smile in her eyes before she turned away to berate someone about hand washing.

The soup came together like a symphony, each ingredient adding its voice at precisely the right moment. Matthew stirred in the tomato paste into the finished mirepoix, then the crushed garlic, then the crushed tomatoes, building depth before adding the diced vegetables in stages based on their cooking time. He had a sudden memory of his papa explaining how soup was about patience—giving each element time to contribute its flavor before moving to the next step.

The stock—vegetable, made fresh that morning by Mrs. Geigle—went in next, then the white beans she'd soaked overnight. As the soup simmered, Matthew tasted, adjusted, tasted again. A pinch of salt, a dash of pepper, a splash of red wine vinegar for brightness.

"Now we let it simmer," he told Mrs. Geigle, who had drifted back to his station. "For the flavors to marry."

She nodded approvingly. "You were born for this, weren't you?"

Matthew shrugged, as always uncomfortable when other people probed too closely at his fragile dreams.

The dining hall began filling at 5:30, a diverse crowd filing in from the cold. Some were regulars that Matthew recognized—the elderly man with a chess set always tucked under his arm, the young mother with twin toddlers, the vet with one leg who told elaborate stories to anyone who would listen. Others were new faces, drawn by necessity to St. Vincent's warm hall and hot food.

Matthew took his place on the serving line, ladling his creation into bowls, adding a sprinkle of Pietro's edible flowers and a few of Jack's croutons to each serving. The simple act of feeding people—of watching their expressions as they tasted something he had made—filled a hollow space inside him that had nothing to do with hunger.

"This is different," said the chess player, pausing at the counter. "More... alive."

Matthew nodded, understanding perfectly what he meant.

The twin toddlers, usually picky eaters according to their harried mother, came back for seconds.

The vet declared it the best soup he'd had since his grandmother's kitchen in the Bronx.

A thin man Matthew had never seen before stopped after his first spoonful, closed his eyes, and whispered, "This tastes like home."

The words echoed through Matthew's mind long after the meal was served, the dishes washed, and the kitchen cleaned for the night. As Mr. Savage drove him back to Horizon House, Matthew stared out the window at the passing streetlights, savoring that simple observation.

This tastes like home. The magic was there tonight.

"Penny for your thoughts," Mr. Savage said, breaking the comfortable silence.

Matthew hesitated, then offered a rare glimpse into his inner world. "I was thinking about my father. How he used to say food is magic."

Mr. Savage nodded. "From what I saw tonight, I'd say he was right. I think he’d be proud of the man you're becoming."

The words settled around Matthew like a warm blanket. The memory of his father brought something other than the sharp ache of loss. There was a new feeling mixed in—something like continuity, like purpose.

As the truck pulled up to Horizon House—still a way station, never a home—Matthew gathered his empty bags and turned to Mr. Savage as he did every time.

"Thank you for the ride, sir."

"Same time Monday?" Mr. Savage asked, as he always did.

But instead of his usual noncommittal shrug, Matthew blurted out. "I'm thinking of asking Mrs. Geigle if I can try a lentil stew next. Maybe with some chorizo if the budget allows."

Mr. Savage grinned. "That's the spirit, Matty. That's the spirit."

Matthew walked into Horizon House, past the institutional walls and bland furnishings, carrying with him the memory of people savoring something he had created. A memory that told him he mattered.

 

 

Chapter 4

Three weeks later, Matthew made a bold move. He found a place of his own. He’d had enough of the group home. After a decade of institutional living, shared bathrooms, and the constant rotation of staff and residents, he wanted something that was his. Something that didn't require permission slips or curfew checks. Something that felt like he finally started the life he was determined to build.

He found a tiny studio apartment above a Chinese restaurant called The Golden Dragon. The rent was cheap enough that he could afford it by picking up some dish-washing shifts at both the Golden Dragon and La Cocina, the Mexican place across the street.

He had one more year of high school. What he would do after graduation was still up in the air. He had some ideas, but nothing that seemed realistic quite yet. The main thing was that he was on his way at last.

Ever present was the old fear that good things were rare and good things were always followed by bad things—the better the good, the worse the bad.

Matthew’s strategy for putting off the looming fate was by working harder. His life became a whirlwind of work and school. His dishwashing and market shifts occupied his weekdays. His weekends alternating between the market and Mr. Li and Senora Vega.

Methodical as ever, he had a schedule planned out:

Monday

Matthew's alarm went off at 5:30 AM, though he was usually awake before it sounded. The habit of early rising, drilled into him by years of institutional schedules, was now one of the few aspects of group home life he maintained.

His studio apartment was meticulously clean and organized. The kitchenette—little more than a hot plate, a mini-fridge, and a sink. He was proud of it. The hot plate picked up from the restaurant supply store downtown. The plates and silverware from a thrift shop. His chef knife, a gift from Mrs. Chen on his sixteenth birthday. The thrift shop also produced two well-seasoned cast-iron pans and an assortment of mismatched but functional cooking utensils.

Breakfast was simple: two eggs, a bowl of oatmeal, and a slice of sourdough toast. He ate standing at his small counter, reviewing chemistry notes for the test later that day.

At 6:45, he locked his apartment and descended the back stairs that led to Golden Dragon's kitchen. Already, he could hear the rhythmic chopping of vegetables and smell the fragrant oils heating in massive woks.

"Morning, Mr. Li," he called to the owner, a small, wiry man with flour-dusted hands who was preparing dough for dumplings.

"Matthew! School today?" Mr. Li asked, though he knew Matthew's schedule as well as his own.

"Until 3:30, then market cleanup."

Mr. Li nodded approvingly. "Study hard. No dishes until tomorrow."

Matthew ducked through the kitchen and out the back door, cutting through the alley to reach the bus stop. He'd timed it perfectly, as always, and the bus pulled up just as he arrived.

School was uneventful—AP Chemistry, English Literature, Calculus, and Economics. Matthew sat in the front row of each class, took meticulous notes, and spoke only when called upon. His teachers had long since given up trying to draw him out or encourage more social interaction. They'd settled for appreciating his consistent A's and impeccable work ethic.

At 3:30, while other students rushed to sports practice or gathered in noisy groups by their cars, Matthew caught the crosstown bus to the farmer's market. He arrived at 4:00, just as vendors were beginning their end-of-day routines.

"There he is," called Jack from the bakery stall. "Right on time, as usual."

Matthew nodded a greeting, stowed his backpack under Jack's counter and pulled on the market apron he kept there. For the next two hours, he moved through the market, sweeping, collecting discarded produce crates, and helping vendors break down their stalls.

As always, his canvas totes gradually filled with contributions for St. Vincent's—bruised apples from the orchard stand, day-old bread from Jack, surplus vegetables from the Ramirez brothers. Mrs. Chen added a package of frozen fish bones and trimmings with a curt, "Good for stock. Maybe some clam chowder for Friday’s meal"

At 6:00, Mr. Savage arrived in his pickup, and they transported the collected food to St. Vincent's kitchen. Monday was inventory night, so Matthew helped Mrs. Geigle sort through the pantry, organize the walk-in refrigerator, and plan the week's meals based on what they had and what they expected to receive from various donors.

"We got a donation of dried chickpeas," Mrs. Geigle noted, making a mark on her clipboard. "Ten pounds. Thinking you might want to do something with those on Thursday?"

Matthew considered. "Moroccan stew, maybe. If we can get some root vegetables."

She nodded, adding notes. "I'll put in a request with the co-op. They usually have surplus carrots and turnips this time of year."

By 9:00, Matthew was back in his apartment, homework and reviewing his class notes before sleep. The sounds of the restaurant below had quieted, the last customers departing around eight. Now there was just the occasional clang of pots as the kitchen staff finished their cleanup.

He fell asleep to the distant murmur of Mr. Li's voice giving instructions for tomorrow's prep, a soothing background noise that reminded him he wasn't alone.

Tuesday

Tuesdays and Thursdays were Matthew's morning shifts at Golden Dragon. After his 5:30 AM alarm and quick breakfast, he reported to the restaurant kitchen at 6:00 sharp.

Mr. Li's wife, Mei, was already there, her hands moving with practiced efficiency as she rolled out dumpling wrappers. She nodded to Matthew as he tied on his apron.

"Many dishes from last night," she said, gesturing to the sink area where stacks of woks, plates, and utensils awaited him. "Mr. Li's nephew had a date. Made special eight-course dinner to impress girl."

Matthew suppressed a smile. Mr. Li's nephew, Peter, was perpetually trying to impress girls with his uncle's restaurant. "Did it work?"

Mei shrugged. "Girl ate everything. Good sign."

For the next two hours, Matthew worked his way through the mountain of dishes.

Mr. Li's son, Alan, arrived at 7:30 to begin prepping vegetables for the lunch service. He worked at the station next to Matthew's sink. His Chinese chef cleaver moved with hypnotic precision through mounds of bok choy, celery and onions. The vegetables finished, he started expertly boning whole chickens.

"You want to learn?" he asked, noticing Matthew watching his technique.

"Yes, please, if you don't mind showing me."

Alan shifted sideways, making room at his cutting board. "Legs and thighs first. Slice carefully at the joints."

Matthew's hands were clumsy at first, the cold chicken carcasses slippery, and the cleaver in his hands felt awkward. But Alan was patient, demonstrating again and again until Matthew boned and skinned four chickens.

"Better," Alan approved. "Tomorrow, try again."

By 8:15, Matthew had to leave for school. He changed into school clothes in the small employee bathroom, splashed water on his face to rinse away the smell of dish soap, and caught the 8:25 bus.

After school, instead of the market, Tuesdays meant a bus trip directly to St. Vincent's. It was Mrs. Geigle's day off, so Matthew supervised the kitchen operations—a responsibility that had evolved gradually over the past year as she recognized his reliability and growing skill.

Today's menu was simple: pasta with marinara sauce, garlic bread, and a green salad. Nothing that required his special attention, which left him free to train two new volunteers, middle-aged women from the Presbyterian church who were eager but inexperienced.

"The trick with pasta," he explained, demonstrating with a wooden spoon, "is to taste it as it cooks. The box says ten minutes, but that's just a guideline. You want it firm but not crunchy. You bite one and check for the tiny white dot in the center. That’s al dente—by the tooth. "

The women volunteers watched attentively, bemused at taking instruction from a teenager but respectful of his obvious expertise.

By the time the dinner service ended at 8:00, Matthew was tired but satisfied. The meal had gone smoothly, the new volunteers had managed well, and several of the regular diners had complimented the robust flavor of the marinara sauce—a recipe he'd adapted from one in his father's repertoire, enhanced with herbs from the market.

Home by 9:00, he had just enough energy to finish his homework before falling into dreamless sleep.

Wednesday

Wednesday mornings were for La Cocina. The Mexican restaurant didn't open until 11:00, but prep started early, and Matthew had arranged with the owner, Señora Vega, to work from 5:30 to 8:00 AM.

La Cocina was a different world from the Golden Dragon. Where Mr. Li's kitchen operated with precise, almost silent efficiency, Señora Vega's domain was vibrant with music, conversation, and the occasional good-natured argument about the proper amount of cilantro in salsa (always "a little more" according to Señora Vega herself).

"Mateo! Come, taste this," Señora Vega called as soon as he entered. She thrust a spoon toward him, laden with a deep red sauce that steamed in the cool morning air.

Matthew obediently tasted, closing his eyes to focus on the flavors. "More cumin," he said after a moment. "And maybe a touch of honey to balance the heat."

Señora Vega beamed. "Yes! Exactly what I was thinking. You have the tongue, niño. When you finish school, you come work for me full time, eh?"

It was an offer she made at least once a week, and Matthew responded as he always did, with a noncommittal smile. Though he was grateful for the job and everything he was learning, his secret ambitions extended far beyond those of a dishwasher/prep cook.

Unlike at Golden Dragon, where the dishes waited until after the previous day's service, at La Cocina, Matthew's primary responsibility grew into prep work. Under the watchful eye of Señora Vega's son-in-law, Javier, he chopped onions, diced peppers, and minced garlic in quantities that would have been staggering if he hadn't grown accustomed to cooking for the crowds at St. Vincent's.

"Más fino," Javier would instruct, demonstrating with his own knife how to make the garlic pieces even smaller, nearly a paste. "For the mole. Must be invisible in the sauce, but you taste it everywhere."

By 8:00, Matthew's hands smelled of garlic and cilantro, a badge of honor he was almost reluctant to wash away before school.

After classes, Wednesday meant back to the farmers' market for cleanup, followed by dinner prep at St. Vincent's—a rotating schedule of simple, hearty meals designed to stretch their donated ingredients as far as possible.

Thursday

Thursday mornings mirrored Tuesdays—early shift at Golden Dragon, school, then St. Vincent's. But today was special: Mrs. Geigle had given him free rein to prepare the Moroccan chickpea stew he'd suggested on Monday.

The co-op had come through with root vegetables—carrots, turnips, and even some parsnips—and Matthew had been mentally perfecting the recipe all week, incorporating techniques he'd observed in both his restaurant jobs.

From Mr. Li, he borrowed the idea of layering flavors, starting with a base of sauteed onions and building complexity with each addition. From Señora Vega, he adopted the bold use of spices, creating a blend that balanced warmth with depth.

As he stirred the stock pot at St. Vincent's, adding the pre-soaked chickpeas to the aromatic base, Mr. Savage wandered into the kitchen, drawn by the scent.

"Smells like you're taking us on a world tour tonight," he observed, peering into the pot.

Matthew nodded, focused on his task. "Moroccan-inspired. With techniques from China and Mexico."

Mr. Savage chuckled. "A chef in the making. Your college applications going out soon?"

The question caused a familiar tightness in Matthew's chest. College applications meant a lot more money than he had saved. His grades were strong enough for scholarships and, as a former ward of the state, he qualified for financial aid. But the logistics of full-time education while supporting himself remained daunting.

"Still thinking about it," he replied, deliberately vague.

Mr. Savage, wise enough to know when not to push, simply nodded. "Well, whatever you decide, you've got skills that will serve you well, college or no college."

The stew was a success, earning compliments even from the most taciturn of St. Vincent's regular diners. Mrs. Geigle, who rarely offered praise, showed her approval by asking for the recipe "for the file," a thin folder of tried-and-true dishes that formed the backbone of the kitchen's repertoire.

As Matthew wrote the process in his notebook, carefully detailing each step and measurement, he felt a surge of pride. Another piece of his own culinary magic, documented and preserved.

Friday

Fridays were split between both restaurants—morning prep at La Cocina, evening dishwashing at Golden Dragon. It was his longest work day, but also his favorite, a full immersion in two distinct culinary worlds.

Today, Señora Vega was experimenting with a new mole recipe, and the kitchen was a flurry of activity. Matthew found himself promoted from vegetable prep to sauce assistant, responsible for toasting dried chilies to the exact point of fragrance without burning.

"Watch the color," Señora Vega instructed, demonstrating with the first batch. "Too light, no flavor. Too dark, bitter. Just right—smell like earth and sun together."

Matthew nodded, concentrating on the pan before him. The chilies darkened gradually, releasing an aroma that reminded him of coffee and chocolate and something deeper, more primal.

"Now!" Señora Vega said sharply, and he transferred the chilies to a waiting bowl, capturing them at their peak moment.

She examined his work and nodded approvingly. "Perfecto. You have the touch, Mateo. The patience. Most young people, they rush. You understand the time that a dish needs."

The compliment warmed him more than he expected, a validation of something he'd always felt but rarely articulated. He did have patience for food—for the slow transformations that turned simple ingredients into something transcendent.

After school, he had just enough time to change clothes in his apartment before reporting to Golden Dragon for the dinner rush. Friday nights were their busiest, with a line often stretching out the door and around the corner.

In the kitchen, Mr. Li and Alan worked like synchronized dancers, flames leaping from woks as they tossed ingredients with practiced precision. Mei supervised the dumpling station, where three young women worked continuously to keep up with demand.

Matthew's station was a maelstrom of dirty dishes, arriving faster than he could wash them. Yet he found a rhythm in the chaos, sorting by type, soaking the most stubborn, washing in batches organized by need—woks first, as they were constantly in demand.

"You quick tonight," Alan observed during a rare lull around 8:30. "Getting better."

Coming from Alan, who rarely commented on anything, this was high praise indeed.

By closing time at 10:00, Matthew's arms ached and his shirt was soaked with sweat and steam, but there was satisfaction in seeing the kitchen restored to gleaming order, ready for tomorrow's service.

Mr. Li paid him in cash, counting out bills with the same precision he applied to measuring ingredients. "Extra busy tonight. Good job, Matthew."

Upstairs in his apartment, too wired to sleep despite his exhaustion, Matthew sat at his small table and recorded his wages in his budget book, the wrote the day's observations in a notebook—his culinary diary, where he documented techniques, flavor combinations, mistakes and other insights gleaned from his various work environments.

 

Weekend

Weekends were a blur of activity, with longer shifts at both restaurants and the market. Saturday morning began with the market. Cleaning and helping the vendors set up their stalls. Most of the vendors were old friends like a family. And like a family, there was teasing and constant questions about dating life (non-existent) and school.

Next at seven thirty, La Cocina's brunch service—a recent addition to their menu that had proven wildly popular.

Matthew arrived at 7:00 AM to help prepare the chilaquiles, huevos rancheros, and special weekend-only conchas that had customers lining up before opening. By now, his role had expanded beyond dishwashing to include actual cooking under Javier's supervision.

"Today you make the salsa verde," Javier announced, setting a crate of tomatillos before him. "Remember what I showed you last week?"

Matthew nodded, already sorting through the husked tomatillos, selecting the firmest ones for roasting. The recipe was simple—tomatillos, serrano peppers, garlic, cilantro—but the technique made all the difference. Roasting the tomatillos and peppers until they were lightly charred brought out a smokiness that balanced their natural acidity.

As he worked, Señora Vega circled him, offering occasional advice or adjustment. "More salt. No, a little less garlic. Yes, perfect char."

By the time the brunch crowd arrived at 10:00, Matthew's salsa verde sat in large bowls ready for service, a vibrant green that brightened every plate it touched.

After La Cocina closed at 3:00, Matthew had just enough time to shower and change before reporting to Golden Dragon at 4:00 for their Saturday dinner service—the busiest of the week.

Tonight, in addition to his usual dishwashing duties, Mr. Li had asked him to help with a special banquet for a family celebrating their grandmother's 90th birthday.

"Twenty people, eight courses," Mr. Li explained, showing Matthew the elaborate menu. "Need help with plating. You have a good eye for presentation."

It was a significant vote of confidence, allowing him to be part of the creative process rather than just the cleanup crew. Matthew studied the menu with care, noting the progression of flavors and textures—cold appetizers giving way to hot small plates, then rich main courses, ending with traditional sweet soup and fruit.

Throughout the evening, as the regular dinner service proceeded in the main restaurant, Matthew shuttled between dishwashing and the banquet’s prep work. For the special soup dumplings, he helped Mrs. Mei arrange them in perfect circles on bamboo steamers, each pleat facing inward. For the whole steamed fish, he assisted Alan in garnishing the platter with intricate carrot and cucumber flowers.

"Very steady hands," Mrs. Mei observed as he placed the final carved radish rose. "Good for fine work."

The banquet was a success, with the birthday grandmother personally requesting to meet the kitchen staff. When Mr. Li introduced Matthew as "our newest cook-in-training," the pride in his voice was unmistakable.

Sunday followed a similar pattern, though with shorter hours at both restaurants. By Sunday evening, Matthew was exhausted but fulfilled, his pocket heavy with wages and tips that would cover next month's rent, with some left over for savings.

His future was still uncertain, questions about college loomed but he was making progress and that was enough.

 

 

Chapter 5

Matthew sat on a hard plastic chair outside Ms. Winters' office, his right knee jiggling in an anxious rhythm. The guidance counselor's office was located in a quiet corner of the high school, far from the clamor of slamming lockers and rowdy students. A bulletin board on the wall across from him was alive with college pennants—Harvard, Stanford, UCLA, Penn State—their bright colors and bold letters promising futures that had always seemed to him to be meant for other people. Regular people.

Not once in the past three years had Matthew voluntarily visited this office. College counseling sessions were mandatory for seniors, of course, but he'd sat through his fifteen-minute slot last fall with noncommittal nods and vague answers. Ms. Winters had given him brochures for the local community college and state university, which he'd tucked into his backpack and later transferred to the drawer in his apartment where he kept important papers—birth certificate, social security card and the creased photograph of his father that had somehow survived nine years of group home life.

But today was different. Today, he had an idea and a hope.

The manila folder in his hands contained information he had downloaded from the Institute of Culinary Education's website—program descriptions, course catalogs, and most dauntingly, financial information. The numbers made his stomach clench: $25,000 per year for tuition alone. That didn’t count living expenses in one of the most expensive cities in the country. Or the other stuff: books, knives, uniforms. The total was more money than Matthew had ever conceived of having.

His savings account, grown from the wages from his jobs at the farmers' market and the restaurants. With careful budgeting, it held just over $5,000—impressive for a seventeen-year-old on his own, but barely enough for two months in New York.

The door to Ms. Winters' office opened, and Nancy Walker, the class valedictorian, emerged.

She gave him a friendly nod, probably wondering what “the ghost” was doing there. Matthew was well aware of what his classmates called him. He didn’t care. He was long inured to being on the outside of all the school activities. He showed up, was friendly but standoffish, and quickly disappeared after school.

He quirked a smile and nodded back. And was shocked to hear her say,

“Good luck in there.” The first time she’d ever talked to him.

The counselor’s voice interrupted them.

"Matthew? Come on in." Ms. Winters stood in the doorway, a tall woman with silver hair and reading glasses that hung from a beaded chain around her neck. Her expression registered mild surprise; like everyone else at school, she wasn't accustomed to Matthew asking for help for anything.

Her office was small but tidy, with a desk, two chairs, and walls lined with more college pennants and framed degrees. A desktop computer hummed softly, its screen displaying a spreadsheet of student names and application statuses.

"Have a seat," she said, gesturing to the chair across from her desk. "This is a pleasant surprise. What can I help you with today?"

Matthew perched on the edge of the seat, his posture rigid. Interactions with authority figures still triggered anxiety. He slid the folder across her desk.

"Yes, ma'am, I want to apply to culinary school," he said, his voice croaked a bit. Trusting anybody with his fragile dream was a huge step for him. "ICE—the Institute of Culinary Education. In New York."

Ms. Winters opened the folder, scanning the contents with practiced efficiency. "Impressive program," she remarked. "One of the best in the country."

"Yes ma’am. That's why I want to go there."

She flipped through the pages, pausing at the tuition information. Her expression didn't change, but Matthew caught the slight raise of her eyebrows.

"I see. Are you looking for information on how to apply?"

"No ma’am. I know how to apply," Matthew said. "I need help to understand if there are scholarships or financial aid that I might be able to get to pay for it." His fingers twisted in his lap. "I have some money saved, but not enough."

Ms. Winters nodded, setting the folder aside and turning to her computer. "Let's see what we're working with here. Your grades are excellent, which is a good start, 3.9 GPA, strong SAT scores, particularly in math."

"Will that matter for culinary school?"

"Academic achievement always matters, Matthew. It demonstrates discipline and work ethic, both crucial in any specialized field." She typed something, clicked through several screens. "Have you filled out the FAFSA yet?"

"The what?"

"Free Application for Federal Student Aid. It's the starting point for any financial assistance. Without it, you can't access federal grants, work-study programs or most scholarships."

Matthew shook his head. He'd heard the term in the mandatory college prep sessions but had filed it away as irrelevant in his mind.

"That's our first step, then." Ms. Winters pulled a form from a drawer. "You'll need your tax information, bank statements, and…" She paused, her expression softening as she remembered his situation. "As a former ward of the state who's been financially independent, you'll qualify as an independent student. That's actually advantageous for aid purposes."

For the next thirty minutes, she walked him through the FAFSA form, explaining terms like "expected family contribution" (zero, in his case) and "cost of attendance" (alarmingly high).

"The good news," she said, "is that your independent status and income level will probably qualify you for maximum federal aid. The bad news is that even maximum federal aid won't cover the full cost of a private culinary program plus living expenses in Manhattan."

Matthew's shoulders tensed. He'd expected this, but hearing it confirmed made his idea seem glaringly stupid.

"I see Ma’am. So, what do I do?"

Ms. Winters leaned back in her chair, studying him with an appraising look that made him want to squirm. "Tell me why culinary school. Why ICE specifically."

The question caught him off guard. He'd prepared for forms and figures, not for defending his dream.

"I..." He hesitated, unused to speaking about personal stuff. "My father was a chef. He died when I was eight."

Ms. Winters nodded, her expression neutral but attentive.

"He used to say that food was magic," Matthew continued. The words coming easier. "That cooks were like wizards. I remember watching him. He could transform a few simple ingredients into something... special—magical." He swallowed hard. "After he died, I lost that magic for a while. But I’ve found it again, working at the farmers' market, at St. Vincent's kitchen, at the restaurants."

His voice grew steadier as he spoke, conviction replacing hesitation. "I've learned a lot on my own, but there's way more to know. Techniques, history, the science behind it all. ICE has the best program for what I want, externship opportunities with top chefs plus all business courses for restaurant management."

He met her eyes. "I don't just want to cook. I want to be great at it. The kind of great that would have made my father proud of me…" His voice trailed off, embarrassed at revealing so much of himself.

Ms. Winters held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded as if he'd passed some unspoken test.

"Matthew, that's exactly what we need," she said, turning back to her computer with renewed purpose. "Your story, your drive—that's what scholarship committees look for. Academic achievement gets your foot in the door, but personal narrative is what makes them accept you."

She began typing rapidly. "There are several culinary-specific scholarships we can target. The James Beard Foundation offers a few, as does the American Culinary Federation. Then there are scholarships for independent students, first-generation college students, students who've overcome significant obstacles."

The printer in the corner hummed to life, spitting out pages that Ms. Winters collected and passed to him. "These are the ones I think you should focus on. Each has different requirements, essays, recommendations, sometimes videos or portfolios of your work."

Matthew flipped through the stack, overwhelmed by the options but oddly heartened. He hadn't known such specific support existed.

"The most important thing," Ms. Winters continued, "is to start now. Many of these have deadlines in the next two to three months. You'll need to write compelling essays, gather strong recommendations, and document your culinary experience."

"Recommendations?" Matthew's mind raced through possibilities. Mrs. Geigle from St. Vincent's would help. Maybe Mr. Li or Señora Vega.

"Yes, and given this program, I'd suggest focusing on professional references rather than academic ones. Teachers who've never seen you work with food can't speak to your culinary potential. Restaurant owners, kitchen managers—people who've seen your passion firsthand will be more valuable."

She pulled out a calendar and circled several dates. "Let's set up a schedule. We'll meet weekly to review your applications. I can help with the essays. Make sure you're highlighting the right experiences and achievements."

Matthew stared at her, speechless. He'd expected forms and maybe a list of websites. He had not let himself even dream of this kind of personal investment.

"Why are you helping me like this?" The question slipped out before he could stop it. Years of dealing with institutional bureaucracies had taught him to expect nothing and to keep his mouth shut.

Ms. Winters' expression softened. "Well, it's my job, Matthew. But more than that—you're exactly the kind of kid who should get these opportunities. You've overcome more obstacles before graduation than most people face in a lifetime, maintained exceptional grades while supporting yourself, and developed a clear vision for your future." She smiled. "Do you know how rare that is? Most of the students who come through that door have no idea what they want, even the ones with every advantage."

“Oh.”

She closed the folder and handed it back to him, along with the stack of scholarship information. "Your father was right, you know. Food is a kind of magic—it brings people together, crosses cultural boundaries, provides comfort and joy in ways nothing else can. Besides, I think the world needs more wizards."

Something tight in Matthew's chest loosened at her words, a knot of doubt loosening into hope.

"Thank you," he said simply. Alarmingly, he felt eyes prickle.

"Don't thank me yet. We have a mountain of paperwork ahead and probably two dozen essays to write." She made a note in her planner. "Tuesday after school? We can start with the FAFSA and the ICE application itself."

Matthew nodded, clutching the folder and scholarship information. "Yes ma’am. I'll be here."

As he left the guidance office, the weight of the papers in his hands felt lighter with possibility. The hallway was empty, classes in session, but for once, Matthew didn't feel the usual sense of separation that had defined his school experience.

A door had opened. Then reality intruded. He quickly got his mind straight.

It’s still a maybe thing. Don’t get your hopes up. Just put one foot in front of the other.

The application process consumed Matthew's spare time over the following weeks. Between shifts at Golden Dragon and La Cocina, homework, and the farmer’s market, he carved out hours to craft essays, gather documentation, and prepare for the interviews required by some scholarships.

Ms. Winters proved an invaluable ally, reviewing his writing with an editor's precision and a counselor's insight. "More detail here," she'd say, circling a paragraph about his work at St. Vincent's. "This is what sets you apart—focus on how you adapted recipes to feed fifty people with limited ingredients."

Or:

"This opening is too general. Start with a specific memory of cooking with your father. Make them feel what it was like for you."

He was touched by the recommendation letters he got. Mrs. Geigle wrote three pages detailing his growth from hesitant helper to confident cook, describing how he'd revitalized the shelter's menu and improved morale through thoughtful food preparation. "In my thirty years of kitchen work," she concluded, "I have never encountered a young person with Matthew's combination of technical skill, creative instinct, and genuine desire to nourish others. Any culinary program would be fortunate to have him."

Mr. Li's letter was briefer but equally powerful, emphasizing Matthew's work ethic, attention to detail, and rapid mastery of techniques. Señora Vega wrote hers in Spanish first, then had her granddaughter translate it, retaining the emotional warmth of her original phrases. "Mateo works with an open heart," one line read.

The most creative support came from the farmers' market vendors. They collectively created a video testimonial when they learned of his culinary school aspirations. Jack the baker organized it. He had his daughter video each vendor and speak about Matthew's growth and potential while showing him in action—selecting produce with the Ramirez brothers, discussing spice blends with Mrs. Saanvi, cleaning fish with Mrs. Chen.

"The kid's got a drive to learn and works hard," Jack said directly to the camera. "We’ve been watching him for years now. Whoever's viewing this—you'd be crazy not to invest in his future."

By the application deadline in early April, Matthew had submitted to ICE itself, completed the FAFSA, and applied for seventeen scholarships ranging from $1,000 to full tuition. Ms. Winters helped him create a spreadsheet to track deadlines, requirements, and status updates.

"Now comes the hard part," she told him during what had become their regular Tuesday meeting. "Waiting."

The process complete, he presented her with a bouquet of spring flowers as a thank you for all her help. Then got discomfited when she burst into tears while trying to thank him.

Waiting proved excruciating. April stretched into May, and while some of the smaller scholarships sent prompt responses (three acceptances, two rejections), the major ones—including ICE's institutional scholarships—maintained silence. Matthew threw himself into his work, picking up extra shifts when possible, anything to keep his mind occupied.

His acceptance to ICE arrived on a Wednesday afternoon in late May. Ms. Winters called him out of AP Economics, her expression giving nothing away as she led him to her office.

"This came for you," she said, handing him a large envelope with the ICE logo in the corner. "I thought you might want some privacy to open it."

Matthew stared at the envelope. The future he'd been working toward was suddenly in front of him—acceptance or rejection, either, would irrevocably change his fate.

"Would you like me to step out?" Ms. Winters asked gently.

He shook his head. "No ma’am. Please stay." His fingers were clumsy as he broke the seal and extracted the contents.

The letter was on top, heavy cream stationery with a letterhead that made it official before he'd read a word. "Dear Mr. Conner," it began. "We are pleased to offer you admission to the Institute of Culinary Education's Culinary Arts program for the Fall 2025 semester..."

Relief washed through him, so powerful he had to grip the edge of the desk to keep from falling.

"I got in," he said, his voice barely audible.

Ms. Winters smiled broadly. "I never doubted it for a moment. Congratulations, Matthew."

But the acceptance was only the first hurdle. As he read further, the familiar anxiety returned. The letter outlined the costs—tuition, fees, estimated living expenses—and the institutional scholarship they were offering: $10,000 per year, renewable with good academic standing.

Significant, but nowhere near enough.

"It's a start," Ms. Winters said, reading his expression. "And a vote of confidence in your abilities. Now we wait for the other scholarship responses."

They trickled in over the following weeks as graduation approached. Two more rejections, four more acceptances of varying amounts. By mid-June, Matthew's scholarship total had reached $18,000 per year—remarkable, but still leaving a gap of nearly $20,000 annually when living expenses were factored in.

"I can't take out loans for that much," Matthew said during what they'd decided would be their final meeting before graduation. "The payments after graduation would be impossible on a starting cook's salary."

Ms. Winters nodded, understanding his caution. Unlike many students, Matthew had no parental safety net, no family home to return to if finances became tight. "There are more still pending," she reminded him. "And sometimes additional funding becomes available over the summer if other students decline their offers."

Matthew nodded, trying to maintain hope despite his experience that hope was a deadly weakness. But as he left her office, the weight of reality settled heavily on his shoulders. He might have to defer for a couple of years, work full-time to save more money, apply again with even stronger credentials.

The thought of delay was painful, but the alternative—crippling debt or worse, dropping out midway due to financial strain—was unthinkable. Delay and save was a good Plan B. He cautioned himself that he would probably have to switch to it.

Graduation day arrived under clear blue skies, the kind of perfect June morning that seemed designed for new beginnings. Matthew sat among his classmates in alphabetical order, the heavy gown stifling in the early summer heat.

He was touched that he had people here for him—Mrs. Geigle, Mr. Savage, and surprisingly, both Mr. Li and Señora Vega. They sat together in the bleachers, an unlikely group united by their connection to him.

When his name was called, their cheers rang out louder than seemed possible for four people. As he crossed the stage to receive his diploma, Matthew caught sight of another unexpected figure in the crowd—Jack from the bakery stall, standing at the back with what appeared to be several other market vendors.

The ceremony passed in a blur, and afterward, Matthew found himself surrounded by his small but fervent support system.

"We have a surprise," Jack announced, handing him an envelope. "From market people. For school."

Confused, Matthew opened it to find a check—made out to the Institute of Culinary Education—for $5,000.

"We all pitched in," Jack explained. "Every vendor at the market, plus some regular customers who've watched you grow up there. It's not enough for everything, but—"

"It's amazing," Matthew interrupted, his voice thick. "I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll come back and teach us all what you learn," Mrs. Chen called from the back of the group. She rarely left her fish stall during market hours; her presence here was perhaps the most shocking of all.

Señora Vega stepped forward next, pressing another envelope into his hands. "From La Cocina staff and customers," she said. "When I tell them my Mateo is going to become a great chef, they all want to help."

This envelope contained $3,000—collected in small donations through a jar by the register over the past month.

The final surprise came from Mr. Li, who cleared his throat awkwardly before speaking. "Golden Dragon also give," he said, presenting a third envelope. "And more important—my cousin in Queens has a Golden Dragon also. He offer room above restaurant, like your apartment now, very cheap rent. Not fancy, but clean, safe. Close to subway for school."

Matthew stared at them all, throat choked, eyes prickling with tears. Overwhelmed. The combined contributions and the housing arrangement would close enough of the financial gap to make ICE possible. Not easy—he'd still need to work throughout his studies, budget every penny, and probably take some small loans—but possible.

"How do I deserve this? Thank you," he said finally, the words inadequate for the emotion behind them.

Mrs. Geigle snorted. "Of course you do. You've worked harder than anyone I know since the day you walked into my kitchen. This isn't charity—it's an investment. We expect returns."

"Big returns," Mr. Savage agreed, clapping him on the shoulder. "When you're a famous chef with your own restaurant, we all expect preferred seating. And maybe the occasional free dessert."

The group laughed, and Matthew found himself laughing with them, the sound unfamiliar but welcome. The tightness in his chest had transformed into something warm and expansive. He wasn’t alone anymore.

Ms. Winters approached the gathering, smiling at the evident celebration. "I thought you might want to see this before you leave," she said, handing Matthew one final envelope. "It just came through the system this morning."

The James Beard Foundation letterhead was instantly recognizable. Matthew opened it with steadier hands than he'd expected, somehow knowing before he read the words that this final piece would complete the puzzle.

"A scholarship," he confirmed, looking up at the circle of faces—educators, employers, mentors, friends—that had, improbably, become his family. "They're covering the remaining tuition gap."

The cheer that went up drew curious stares from other graduation groups nearby. Matthew’s mind went racing ahead to New York, to ICE, to professional kitchens and techniques he'd only read about.

"Your father would be proud of you, Matty. We all are too." Mr. Savage said quietly.

Matthew was desperately trying to maintain his composure amid a flush of gratitude that threatened to overwhelm him. Thanks to these people, he could see himself walking the path to dreams.

 

 

Chapter 6

The room above the Golden Dragon in Queens was a carbon copy of his room above Mr. Li’s Golden Dragon—small, functional, with the same fragrant cooking smells wafting up through the floorboards. When Mr. Wei had shown him the space, Matthew immediately felt a sense of comfort in the similarity. The same squeaky twin bed pushed against the wall. Same miniature kitchenette with barely enough counter space for a cutting board. Even the bathroom had the same temperamental shower that required a specific touch to balance between scalding and freezing.

"Not fancy," Mr. Wei said, "but clean. Good for student."

“Gan xie ni de bang zhu”, Matthew said formally in halting Mandarin.

Mr. Wei laughed with delight. “Huānyíng nǐ, niánqīng zhǔrén,” he replied and slapped him on the shoulder and walked off, still chuckling.

Matthew set his two duffel bags down. They contained everything he owned in the world. The room gave him a strange sensation of being far from home and home exactly where he belonged.

The apartment might have been familiar, but the city itself was daunting. On his second day, Matthew took the subway into Manhattan, determined to figure out the travel time to ICE before classes started. He'd studied the subway map extensively the night before, tracing the routes with his finger, memorizing transfers and stops. But the reality of rush hour in New York City was another matter entirely.

The J train was packed shoulder to shoulder with commuters swaying in unison like some strange urban tide. Matthew gripped the overhead bar, his other hand instinctively checking that his wallet was still in his front pocket. Growing up in Chicago had taught him street smarts, but New York seemed to operate at a different frequency, faster and more intense.

A woman in a business suit noticed his tense expression and offered a sympathetic smile. "First week?"