Abby
“Okay, John, pass me the truffle oil,” I call out, my focus entirely on the pan in front of me.
“Got it,” John replies, handing me the small, dark bottle.
The kitchen is close to closing time, and John and I have been spending every free moment today trying to get this recipe right. We don’t have the truffles, but I’ve settled on some substitutions, figuring that it’ll be better to at least get practice on the dish rather than nothing at all.
I drizzle a few drops over the mafaldine, my eyes narrowing as I try to capture the elusive essence of the dish in my mind. “It has to be perfect. The competition won't allow any room for error.”
John smiles, a flash of warmth in his eyes. “You’re doing great, Abby. We’ve got this.”
But as I stir the pasta, incorporating the oil into the sa
