Skylar - Heart of the Kitchen? WC 869

Skylar enters a cooking contest, hoping she won't burn another stove boiling water.

Skylar - Heart of the Kitchen?

          "Okay, deep breaths," I whispered to myself, adjusting my slightly-too-big chef's hat and glancing around the bustling kitchen of La perfection ou la honte: Perfection or Shame. The name was dramatic, sure, but so was everything else about the place: gleaming copper pans, marble countertops, and aspiring chefs who moved with the grace of ballet dancers, not cooks. Me? I was Skylar, the world's worst cook, standing in the middle of a culinary dream like a fire extinguisher in a soufflcontest.

          Everyone knew my reputation. My scrambled eggs once set off the smoke detector in three buildings. My grilled cheese came with a complimentary side of charcoal. I once tried to make oatmeal and somehow created a sticky substance that defied physics; it walked off the stove when no one was looking. So, when I signed up for the Beginner Cook-Off, the one with the life-changing prize--full room, board, and tuition at this legendary school--people laughed. My roommate nearly fainted. My mom sent me three fire extinguishers in the mail.

          But here's the thing they didn't know I wanted this. I wanted to learn. I wanted to know what "al dente" actually meant. I wanted to make something that didn't come with a warning label. And despite my track record, I'd been practicing. Nonstop. Burnt pancakes? Check. Salty pasta water? Double check. But progress, I swear, was happening. My risotto last week only exploded once.

          The contest had simple rules: cooking a three-course meal using only beginner-level techniques. Appetizer, entrée, dessert. Judges included Chef Laurent Dubois, a man whose eyebrows could end careers, and Madame Giselle, who once cried over a perfectly cooked cre Brulbecause it "spoke to her soul." No pressure.

          I started strong--well, as strong as someone who once mistook salt for sugar can start. My appetizer was a "simple" tomato-and-basil bruschetta. I toasted the bread carefully, sliced the tomatoes with surgical precision, and tossed in fresh basil as I'd seen on cooking shows. It looked... edible. That was a win.

          Then came the entrée: lemon-herb chicken with roasted vegetables. I laid out my ingredients like sacred relics. Olive oil. Garlic. Fresh thyme. I seasoned the chicken with pride, drizzled it just right, and slid it into the oven. The scent began to rise--herbs, citrus, the promise of triumph.

          But then--poof--the lights flickered.

          A sudden hiss came from the oven. I opened the door, and my chicken emerged not golden and tender, but... blackened. Charcoal. A smoking tribute to my effort. "What the--?" I gasped. I knew I'd set the right temperature.

          Panicked, I turned to my side station where my vegetables were supposed to be roasting. They were soggy. Drenched. I hadn't added that much oil. Had I?

          That's when I noticed it. The oil bottle near my station was almost empty; but I just opened it. And my salt shaker? It felt lighter. I peeked inside and found it was filled with something white and powdery...but not salt. Sugar? Baking soda? I didn't know.

          Someone had tampered with my supplies.

          A wave of frustration crashed over me--hot, stinging. But then, strangely, laughter bubbled up. I chuckled. Then full-on laughed. Because yes, I was being sabotaged. Yes, my meal was falling apart. But I wasn't giving up. Not now. Not when I was so close.

          "We need to get to the bottom of this," I said aloud, brushing flour off my apron and squaring my shoulders. But not in anger: in determination. In joy.

          Because here's another thing no one knew I'd brought backup. My infamous "disaster recipe book" filled with all my cooking fails--and the lessons learned from each one. I flipped to "When Things Go Horribly Wrong." My eyes landed on "Pasta Rescue: When All Else Fails, Embrace Chaos."

          With minutes left, I dumped my ruined chicken (into the compost bin--respectfully), grabbed the untouched block of mozzarella, a can of crushed tomatoes, and pasta that hadn't even boiled yet. I improvised. A quick tomato sauce. A caprese salad with extra basil. And for dessert? My famous "accidental no-bake chocolate oat surprise"--which had once glued a spoon to the counter but was shockingly delicious.

          When the judges came around, my station wasn't pristine. My apron splattered. My hair had escaped its ponytail. But my food? Edible. Actually good.

          Chef Laurent took a bite of the caprese, paused... and smiled. "This," he said, "is charming in its simplicity. Honest."

          Madame Giselle nearly hugged me after the dessert. "It's... it's like a hug from childhood," she whispered.

          I didn't win. Not officially. But as they handed me an honorary "Heart of the Kitchen" award and offered me a spot in the upcoming semester--on scholarship--I realized something.

          The sabotage? Never solved. Probably one of the "perfect" contestants who couldn't stand the idea of the world's worst cook walking through the same hallowed halls.

          But I didn't care.

          Because as I walked out, laughing with new friends, clutching my acceptance letter, I knew the truth: sometimes, you don't need perfection. You just need heart, a few second chances... and the joy of proving everyone wrong, one messy, delicious bite at a time.

Word Count: 869
Prompt: "We need to get to the bottom of this,"