“Welcome to my kitchen,” said the cook in his thick accent. It was quick and french, or at least, old fashioned french. Nowadays, that accent was only found in Ifragald, the country where cooking was centred around ever since scientists gathered France, Italy, Greece, a little of Africa, and England, the countries with the most prominently displayed food.

“Today,” the chef said, who was Jarett Hapleur, the best cooking teacher in Ifragald, “we will be delving into the basics of cooking with a very simple dish. It is what best describes this country. It is chicken pasta with unique spices, macarons on the side, and English chips dipped in sour cream.”

“That’s simple?” Someone in the audience murmured.

“Yes,” Monsieur Hapleur glared in the direction of the voice. “In my kitchen you will learn to make entire feasts within hours! Your Christmas dinners will be, simply put, a mere casual affair. In contrast, the feast laid out at Peace Gatherings will be a child’s affair! But not mine. She is among us today as my assistant. She could do the meal I teach you today in her sleep by age six!” (The Peace Gatherings were a yearly thing that helped end wars. Everyone could share their opinions and etcetera.)The crowd looked over doubtfully at the nine year old girl with the messy pony tail and chef’s hat and apron carrying out a pile of knives for the students. She smiled a charming smile at them, her blue eyes crinkling and dimples showing on her few freckles. To prove her father’s point, she turned to the student’s individual kitchen island. With a few flicks of her wrist she expertly tossed the knifes over into the knife boards.

“Let us begin,” said Monsieur Hapleur.

…

“You must test the water to find it is hot! You must make sure the noodles are soft!” Monsieur shouted as he did several things at once. His voice zipped through the words. “Test! Fix! Test again! Your noodles will not make, cook and flavour themselves! Test your sauce! Fiddle with the spice and taste! The chicken is to be cooked, not charred or undercooked! We need not give our tasters sickness!”

Everyone dashed around in a panic, barely following. Noticing this, Monsieur Hapleur’s daughter leaned over and whispered in her father’s ear. He nodded.

“Everyone stop!” He shouted. Everyone did instantaneously. “Let us slow down. Everyone is panicking. I understand the fear and need for speed but I had forgotten in the moment how it was to not be so quick to cook. I will attempt to slow down.”

He did. All throughout the lesson the students felt more at ease and the ability to slow down.

“Make sure that your noodles are soft. Curl one on your fork— see it follow the shape gently and droopily.

“You need to check the chicken! Smell it and cut it in half. You can feel the heat when it is done. No pink! And hear that sizzling— that is excellant but signifies that in a few moments you should flip it.

“Taste test everything before you are done! Spice could be overpowering. The sour cream should not be totally sour; we’re not making yogurt.

“The macarons MUST have the right consistency. The way the spoon moves through the batter is important— not runny. Not too thick.

“Remember, cooks have the right to improvise! The measurments are guidelines. But bakers must follow the amounts!”

In the end, everyone lined up with their dish. Monsieur paced back and forth in front of them. At last, he gestured for them to serve food to the testers.

It was a hit. Monsieur dismissed his students with pride. They had the skills to become exellent cooks, and would flourish under his supervision.