“On it,” he responds, jogging toward the pantry. He returns a few moments later,

and we swap places.

“Make sure to turn the duck and sear it evenly,” I call out as I begin to mix the

ingredients together to make the dough. “Use the red wine for moisture. Yeah,

just like that, perfect…”

When the buzzer blares, signaling the end of the round, I step back and take a

look at my dish.

It’s beautiful—each element perfectly executed, just like I rehearsed a million

times in my head. The plate practically glows under the stage lights, and I can’t

Enter title…

of pride

their way around, forks poised,

Daniel’s

creation. My heart pounds in my chest, each

echoing my mounting anxiety.

come to my

pushing my plate

rendition of duck pâté en croûte. I

which I believe adds a savory kick

and nods approvingly, her eyes meeting

respect. The second judge, too, gives a

extraordinaire and owner

the world. His gaze

takes a bite

as he

a small grimace. My blood

texture’s off,” he says, setting down his fork. “And you

black pepper isn’t hiding your inadequate

a punch to the gut. The judges move on, but

in a haze, my throat collapsing in on itself. This is

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