“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…

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

intoxicating, filling the room and making

like an eternity, the dish is finally complete. John

mafaldine, black truffle butter, and mushrooms sitting on

scooping a generous portion onto three plates

a fork, the atmosphere between us

my tongue, I know something is wrong. The flavors

my palate to wince in response. The black truffle

the dish with a

the food out instinctively, my eyes going wide as I ch

the taste of soil. “Oh, this is

widening as he puts his fork down and

the slight grimace on his face speaks

already dumping the disgusting

I didn’t realize they could overpower

John suggests, surprisingly

of black

We start by making adjustments to the recipe,

ratios

first attempt. The three of us almost spit out our bites

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