Episode 6: The Cooking Challenge
Today was Saturday — the day Charles and I were going head-to-head in our cooking competition. My heart was practically doing cartwheels in my chest, and butterflies raced up and down my spine like they had a mind of their own. I had been anticipating this day for a week, and now it was finally here. The thought of cooking with him, side by side, sent a mixture of excitement and nerves coursing through me. I couldn't decide whether to be more thrilled or more anxious. Probably both.
We were already at the grocery store, pushing a cart down the aisles, gathering ingredients for the dish we had agreed on: a hearty vegetable stew with meat. Charles had insisted on cooking his version, and he had taken full control of selecting the ingredients. I was mostly an observer, hovering over his shoulder, making small approving noises, pretending to be an inspector while secretly admiring how methodical and precise he was.
"Grab this spinach, $3.50," he instructed, handing over the bundle to the cashier. I noticed how he handled everything with care — not just tossing items in the cart, but inspecting each leaf, each stalk. There was a quiet intensity in the way he moved, a focus that made my pulse quicken.
"Would you like me to slice it for you, sir?" the cashier asked politely.
Charles shook his head. "No, that's fine. Just trim the stems and leave the rest for me," he said, glancing at me and giving a small, conspiratorial smile.
He leaned close, whispering so only I could hear, "I don't like pre-sliced greens. It messes with the texture." I couldn't help but smile back. There was something quietly impressive about a man who cared about such minute details.
The cashier packed the spinach neatly into a paper bag, which I then placed gently into the cart. We moved along to the next aisle, and I let Charles take the lead. At the spice section, I watched silently, knowing he wanted to handle it himself. He selected red bell peppers, jalapeños, and a mix of chili flakes. He then picked out beef, veal, smoked sausage, dried fish, and a few other meats. Even the ingredients I would usually avoid, like strong-flavored beans and fermented seasonings, were being thrown into the cart. "It's for the competition," I reminded myself. I could only trust his instincts today.
He also picked garlic, onions, rosemary, thyme, and even a few jars of pre-cooked beans, which made me grimace slightly. Normally, I wouldn't use them in combination, but this was his kitchen, his rules, his challenge.
I suggested grabbing some bread or mashed potatoes as a side, but he shook his head, smiling confidently. "I'll make fresh mashed potatoes myself," he said. "No shortcuts."
As we loaded the cart into his car, I marveled at how organized he was. My admiration for him was quiet but profound. I didn't know Charles was this meticulous, this precise — it made me both nervous and excited. Trying to cheat him in anything today would be impossible; he knew every detail of his craft.
The car ride to his house was smooth and comfortable. We talked about trivial things — recent shows, the weather, favorite comfort foods, even funny stories from work. It was these little conversations that made my heart feel lighter. I found myself laughing at things that weren't even funny, the nervous energy giving way to anticipation.
Finally, we pulled up to his house. Butterflies erupted again in my stomach. This was my first time here.
"So… this is your house?" I asked, trying to mask my nervousness with a casual smile.
"Yes. And soon it'll be yours too," he said, flashing a grin that made my stomach flutter even more.
I got out of the car and immediately started carrying some of the bags, but Charles insisted on doing it himself. I gave up and let him handle it, trying not to peek into the papers and produce he was carefully balancing.
The moment I stepped inside, I was stunned. His living room was cozy yet luxurious, immaculate yet warm. There were tasteful decorations on the walls, framed photographs, and a subtle scent of lavender in the air. One photograph in particular caught my eye — Charles, smiling brightly on a hiking trip, completely carefree. I smiled quietly to myself.
"Let's get started," he said, leading me to the kitchen.
"Wow," I whispered as I stepped inside. The kitchen was spacious, pristine, and perfectly organized. Every counter gleamed, every utensil had its place, and the air smelled faintly of lemon cleaning spray.
"Did you clean all this because I'm coming?" I teased, trying to lighten the tension.
"No," he replied, "I just hate clutter and mess. But… yeah, you do inspire me a little."
He laid out all the ingredients, slicing, chopping, and organizing with precision. I watched in quiet fascination as he cleaned the cutting board, sharpened his knives, and arranged everything as though preparing for a culinary war.
"Wash your hands first," he instructed, pointing to the sink. I obeyed, letting the warm water and fragrant soap wash away my nerves as well.
He sliced and diced the vegetables while I washed the beef and veal. The rhythm of our movements soon became a silent dance — two people working in tandem, each aware of the other's movements, the kitchen filled with a mix of sizzling meat and fresh vegetables.
Once everything was prepped, I blended the peppers using the electric blender while he started cooking the veal on high heat with just a touch of water. The air quickly filled with the rich aroma of spices, roasting meat, and fresh vegetables — comforting, yet intoxicating.
When the veal was nearly done, I added the beef, onions, salt, and seasoning cubes, stirring carefully to ensure everything cooked evenly. In a separate pan, I poured oil, heated it, and added chopped onions, sautéing them for two minutes. Then I added the pre-cooked beans, frying them briefly to enhance their aroma. Finally, I poured in my blended pepper mixture, sprinkled in more seasoning and dried fish, stirring with deliberate care.
I glanced over at Charles. He was completely absorbed in his cooking — apron tied neatly, chef's hat on, every movement precise. I smiled and returned to my own pot, following his earlier rule: no talking while cooking. The kitchen was quiet, apart from the hum of the blender, the sizzle of meat, and the occasional clink of utensils.
After twenty minutes, I checked my pot. The oil floated on the surface, the vegetables were tender, and the meat was cooked through. I added smoked fish, dried sausage, and more beef, tasting carefully for seasoning. Finally, I added the greens, stirring them into the thick, aromatic sauce. I covered the pot, letting it simmer gently, and inhaled deeply. The kitchen smelled heavenly.
I looked over to Charles and noticed he was pounding potatoes with a rhythmic precision. "Are you almost done?" I asked softly, trying not to distract him.
He turned to me, smiled without saying a word, then went back to pounding. The connection between us, unspoken but palpable, made my stomach flutter even more.
After a few minutes, I lifted my pot from the stove, turned off the heat, and stepped back, surveying my creation. "I'm done," I said, smiling proudly.
Charles looked up, flour on his hands from the mashed potatoes, and grinned. "Yes, it's done," he said. "See? The potatoes are ready too. Brace yourself — today, you're tasting the most delicious meal you'll ever eat," he teased.
"Oh, you're also biting your tongue today," I said playfully, tapping him on the arm.
He leaned in, resting his palm gently against my cheek, brushing a stray strand of hair away, and pressed a tender kiss to my cheek. My chest tightened, and a warm shiver ran through me. Butterflies exploded in my stomach, but in a good way — a way that made my heart race and my mind dizzy with anticipation.
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