“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…

them fall

intoxicating, filling the room and making my stomach growl with

is finally complete. John and I step back, looking at

truffle butter, and

I say, scooping a generous portion onto three plates for

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

moment the pasta touches my tongue, I know something is

The black truffle butter, rather

dish with a dirty,

I ch

of soil. “Oh, this is bad. This is really,

as

anything, but the slight grimace on

I mutter, already dumping the disgusting dish into the trash.

realize they could

John suggests, surprisingly lighthearted despite

of

get to work. We start by making adjustments to

ratios of

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

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