“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—as

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. I

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

black truffles.

Enter title…

letting them fall into the small pot of melted butter

intoxicating, filling the room

what feels like an eternity, the dish is finally

farro mafaldine, black truffle butter, and mushrooms sitting

a generous portion onto three plates for

fork, the atmosphere between us thick

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

The black truffle butter, rather than enhancing the dish as

is instead overpowering the dish

my eyes going wide as I ch ug

“Oh, this is bad. This is

mirrors my sentiments, his eyes widening as he puts his

the slight grimace on his

I mutter, already dumping the disgusting dish into the trash. “I’ve never cooked

truffles before. I didn’t realize they could overpower

But let’s try again,” John suggests, surprisingly lighthearted despite the failed attempt and

of

to work. We start by making

the ratios

result is somehow even worse than the first attempt. The three of us almost spit

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