“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…

ve thin layers of the truffles, letting them fall into the small

intoxicating, filling the room and making

an eternity, the dish is finally complete. John and I step

of farro mafaldine, black truffle butter,

I say, scooping a generous portion

up a fork, the atmosphere between us

pasta touches my tongue, I know something is wrong.

response. The black truffle butter, rather than enhancing the dish

instead overpowering the dish with a dirty,

as I

“Oh, this is

as he puts his fork down

but the slight grimace on his

serve this,” I mutter, already dumping the disgusting dish into the trash.

they could overpower a dish

But let’s try again,” John suggests, surprisingly lighthearted

supply of black

making adjustments to the recipe,

the ratios of

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

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