Chasing His Kickass Luna Back Chapter 140

Abby

Duck. Pork. A flaky pastry dough.

It should be easy. I’ve practiced it a hundred times, tasted it a thousand. It’s one of my favorite French dishes to make, and yet, as the stage descends into organized chaos…

I’m frozen.

My eyes are wide like a deer in headlights. The deafening roar of the crowd, the sound of voices and cooking utensils, the movement of the cameras and the announcer’s voice booming over the microphone—all of it is too much.

Suddenly, I feel as though I’m being transported back in time, back to a time when I was much younger…

It was my first year of culinary school, the end of my first semester. For our final project, we were supposed to compete in a style not all that much unlike the cook-off, minus the sky-high stakes and the television production of it all.

The class was gathered around our stainless steel tables, dressed in our fresh white chef’s uniforms, as our professor—Chef Andrews—paced back and forth in front of us, announcing our task for the day.

“Today,” he announced, “you will be preparing beef stroganoff. A simple dish but one that demands attention to detail. I expect each and every one of you to utilize the techniques we have been practicing all semester. You may begin.”

As the class launched into action, I felt my hands go clammy. I was at my station, my ingredients in front of me, but my mind went blank.

How could I forget something as basic as beef stroganoff? I had made it a dozen times before, but at that moment, it felt as though someone had wiped my mind clean.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remember how to get it started. The ingredients in front of me felt foreign, and I felt utterly lost.

My classmates seemed to be taking on the task just fine, dicing, searing, and seasoning as if they were born with a skillet in their hand. Then there was Michael, the guy who treated every class like a personal performance.

He sauntered over to my station, an unpleasant grin on his face.

“Hey, Abby, what’s the matter? Cat got your tongue or did you forget how to cook?”

I looked at him, struggling to muster a response.

“No, I... I know how to make it. Just… taking it all in,” I stammered, my face turning red.

Michael chuckled as though he was savoring my discomfort. “You women just don’t know how to act under pressure. Maybe you’d be better suited for office work or something more... menial.”

Before I could answer, Michael walked away, leaving me astounded. That day, I managed to scrape together a haphazard version of the classic dish, and I just barely passed. I never forgot the words he said to me… that women couldn’t act under pressure.

Was that true? Was I one of those ‘women’ who couldn’t act under pressure? Was I doomed to give up on my dreams, all because of performance anxiety?

…Out of seemingly nowhere, a nudge from Karl snaps me back to the present, pulling me out of the dark haze of my distant memories. I’m not in culinary school anymore; I’m here, on this stage, surrounded by frantic movements of my contestants and the roar of the crowd.

“Abby, are you okay?” Karl asks, his concerned brown eyes popping into view. “Time’s ticking.”

“Uhm…” I clear my throat. “Y-Yeah. I’m good. Let’s do this,” I reply, grabbing a skillet and setting it on the stove.

As I heat some oil and start searing the duck, it hits me—I know this recipe like the back of my hand. The steps come flooding back, each one as familiar as a path I’ve walked a million times before.

Michael was wrong. I can work under pressure. It’s just that sometimes, all I need is a little nudge, that’s all.

“‘Ken,’ I need you to take over this duck so I can start on the pastry dough, and can you get the red wine and chicken liver from the pantry?” I ask.

“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 help but feel a surge of pride course through my body.

The judges make their way around, forks poised, eyes narrowed in concentration. I watch as they reach Daniel’s station. He stands tall, his chin held high, as they taste her creation. My heart pounds in my chest, each thud echoing my mounting anxiety.

Finally, they come to my station.

“Hello, ladies and gentlemen,” I say, pushing my plate forward. “I hope you enjoy my rendition of duck pâté en croûte. I incorporated a hint of black pepper into the pastry, which I believe adds a savory kick in a subtle way.”

The first judge takes a bite and nods approvingly, her eyes meeting mine in a silent communication of respect. The second judge, too, gives a nod.

But then, there’s Logan—the Logan—chef extraordinaire and owner of some of the most renowned restaurants in the world. His gaze is piercing, almost disconcerting, as he takes a bite of my dish.

The seconds stretch out like hours as he chews slowly, deliberately, his face unreadable. And then, a small grimace. My blood runs cold.

“The texture’s off,” he says, setting down his fork. “And you could have used more seasoning. The black pepper isn’t hiding your inadequate flavor.”

I feel like I’ve taken a punch to the gut. The judges move on, but I feel like I’m stuck in a haze, my throat collapsing in on itself. This is only the first round, and yet I already feel like I’ve been tied to the whipping post, and Logan is doling out punishments over black pepper and texture.

Karl, sensing my disappointment, gently squeezes my arm. “Hey, it’s just one judge. His opinion doesn’t define everything,” he whispers as we return to our station.

“I know, Karl,” I whisper. “But what if I make it to the next round and he hates my food again? It’ll only get harder from here.”

Karl’s eyes lock onto mine. “Abby, you’re a brilliant chef. One comment doesn’t erase all the work you’ve put into this. Don’t let it mess with your head.”

Despite his comforting words, the worry clings to me, sticky and persistent. What if Logan’s opinion sways the others? What if his critique is just foreshadowing the rest of the competition?

We return to our station, the tension in the room almost palpable as the judges convene for a final discussion. I find myself absentmindedly rearranging utensils on my workspace, my hands trembling. All I can think about is that little girl up there, her spirits fading as her so-called ‘hero’ gets eliminated on the first round.

But then, finally, the judges return.

“Contestants,” the announcer’s voice booms through the studio, pulling me back to the present. “The judges have reached a decision.”

My heart is in my throat as I look around. Bryan seems cool and composed, silent as usual. Daniel is standing with his arms folded, chin held high. Frederick is fidgeting slightly in his spot.

And me? I feel like I’m about to jump out of my skin.

“And now,” the announcer continues, drawing out the suspense, “the winners of this round are…”