Chasing His Kickass Luna Back

I can already taste the financial stress paying a professional like him would put me in if I hired him for

good, but I’m already thinking of ways to foot the bill. I still need to give Anton time to prove himself, but if

he does, I know I want him to stay. And I think everyone else does, too.

Even Karl, maybe.

“Anton, you promised me a cooking lesson. How about now?” I ask, leaning against the counter and trying

not to seem too eager.

He looks up, his eyes twinkling. “Ah, Abby, I was hoping you’d remember,” he says in that signature

accent of his. There’s a newfound sense of excitement in him, and I can tell that the kitchen is really his

home. “Yes, yes, of course!”

Enter title…

Within moments, he’s setting up the ingredients on a clean countertop: farro mafaldine pasta, assorted

mushrooms, various cheeses and spices, and of course the coveted black truffles.

“So, watch closely. First, you want to get the water boiling like it’s a hot spring in Iceland,” Anton instructs,

setting a large pot on the stove.

“Icelandic hot springs, got it,” I nod, not really sure where Iceland comes into the picture, but willing to go

with it.

We move through the steps. Anton’s hands are precise, his instructions detailed yet straightforward, and

also oddly couched in every metaphor and analogy possible. I can see John and Karl peeping over from

their stations, curious but not wanting to intrude. They pretend to be absorbed in their tasks but I can tell

that they’re eavesdropping.

“A touch of salt in the water,” Anton says as he sprinkles it into the pot, “makes it as salty as the sea. Or at

least, that’s what my grandma used to say. She drowned in a freshwater lake, which I always found

ironic.”

My eyes widen. “Anton…”

“Kidding, kidding,” he says, flicking another pinch of salt into the water with a flourish. Behind me, I can

hear John stifle a laugh, and it comes out like he’s being choked.

After we add the pasta, Anton guides me through the delicate process of making the sauce. He sautees

the mushrooms carefully. “Treat them like you would a first date, gentle yet with intent,” he says, and now

I’m the one who can’t contain my laugh.

“How many first dates have you had with mushrooms?”

“Ah, a gentleman never tells.”

Finally, it’s time to add the part that I’ve most been dreading: the black truffle butter. After carefully

simmering almost microscopic pieces of black truffles with lard, Anton slices a small piece, letting it melt

into the pan, and the aroma is heavenly.

“So you use lard instead of butter,” I murmur, jotting on my notepad.

Anton nods. “Lard has so much more flavor. Just pray that none of the judges for your competition are

vegetarians. Ha!”

After the truffle butter has melted, we combine the pasta with the sauce, stirring it gently until it looks as

mouth watering as any dish I’ve seen prepared in this kitchen.

“Et voila! It’s done. Go on, plate it.” Anton steps back, handing me the reins now.

My hands are slightly shaky, the anticipation mingling with a tiny stream of self-doubt. What if I ruin it at

the last step? I glance over at John and Karl; they’ve put down their tools now, their full attention on me.

No pressure, right?

I take a deep breath, spoon some pasta onto a dish, and top it off with a sprinkle of parmesan cheese and

a sprig of basil. Anton hands me a fork with a nod.