Chasing His Kickass Luna Back
Chapter 231

Abby

Duck. Pork. A flaky pastry dough. S~ᴇaʀᴄh the Find ɴøᴠel.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

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.

Enter title…

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.

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