Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

Chatper 174

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“Okay, Abby. Let’s get everything in place. Farro mafaldine, black truffle butter, and the mushrooms,”

John

says, his hand passing over each individual ingredient—and lingering over the coveted black truffles—

he speaks.

I nod. My body feels like it’s about to burst, I’m so excited. “I can’t believe we’re finally doing this,” I say.

“If

we can just nail this dish, the cook-off is ours.”

Karl chuckles from the sidelines. “No pressure, huh?”

John and I share a quick glance and a collective breath before diving in.

He works on preparing the handmade pasta, expertly feeding the farro mafaldine through the machine.

focus on the mushrooms, slicing them with surgical precision before turning to the star of our dish: the

black truffles.

Enter title…

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Carefully, I sh ve thin layers of the truffles, letting them fall into the small pot of melted butter on the

stove.

The aroma is intoxicating, filling the room and making my stomach growl with anticipation.



After what feels like an eternity, the dish is finally complete. John and I step back, looking at the

steaming

bowl of farro mafaldine, black truffle butter, and mushrooms sitting on the countertop.

“Well, here goes nothing,” I say, scooping a generous portion onto three plates for taste testing.”

We each pick up a fork, the atmosphere between us thick with anticipation.

But the moment the pasta touches my tongue, I know something is wrong. The flavors clash h o

rrendously,

causing my palate to wince in response. The black truffle butter, rather than enhancing the dish as it

should, is instead overpowering the dish with a dirty, murky flavor.

I spit the food out instinctively, my eyes going wide as I ch ug a glass of water sitting beside me to

wash

out the taste of soil. “Oh, this is bad. This is really, really bad.”

John’s face mirrors my sentiments, his eyes widening as he puts his fork down and swallows harshly.

Karl

doesn’t say anything, but the slight grimace on his face speaks volumes.

“We can’t serve this,” I mutter, already dumping the disgusting dish into the trash. “I’ve never cooked

with

black truffles before. I didn’t realize they could overpower a dish so easily.”



“Me neither. But let’s try again,” John suggests, surprisingly lighthearted despite the failed attempt and

our

limited supply of black truffles.

Once again, we get to work. We start by making adjustments to the recipe, cutting down on the truffle,

changing the ratios of spices.

But the result is somehow even worse than the first attempt. The three of us almost spit out our bites in

unison, John’s face paling to a sickly hue.

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“Good g od!” I exclaim, clutching the edge of the counter with a grimace. “What are we getting wrong?”

Karl mumbles something to himself, poking at the pasta with his fork. “Maybe… too much butter?”

I shake my head. “Can’t be. If anything, it was dry.”

Frustrated and verging on desperate, I take the bowl of the failed second attempt and march towards

the

dumpster outside.

Cursing under my breath, I storm over to the dumpster and lift the lid to throw the failed dish in. But

that’s

when a haggard voice suddenly catches my attention.

“Hey! Excuse me!”

I whip around, my eyes going wide.



Standing at the far end of the alley is a homeless man. His eyes aren’t on me, but rather on the bowl in

hands.



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