The fire under the stove coughed to life after a few stubborn sparks. Thin lines of smoke curled upward, the sll of singed wood filling the kitchen. The heavy pot sat on top, still empty, waiting for its fate.
Freya stood stiffly at the counter, sleeves rolled high, staring down at an onion as though it had personally insulted her family na. Her knife hovered, hesitant, too elegant in her grip for sothing as simple as chopping.
"This," she said coldly, "is absurd. I should not be doing this."
"Absurd is exactly the word," I agreed cheerfully, sawing at a carrot that splintered into chunks more than slices. "But alas, here we are. Noble lady and street rat, united by the sacred duty of soup."
She shot a glare sharp enough to cut the onion for her. "Stop talking."
I ignored her and slid my lopsided carrot pieces into the pot. They hit the bottom with sad, hollow clunks. A noble beginning to a noble dish.
Freya finally pressed her knife into the onion. The blade sank through with a crunch, releasing a sharp, biting scent that filled the air. She froze, wrinkling her nose. "It slls... offensive."
"It’s supposed to sll like that," I said, fanning the air toward her dramatically. "That’s flavor."
"Flavor?" she repeated, holding the onion slice between two fingers as though it were toxic.
"Yes. It’s what makes food not taste like wet paper."
She set the onion down with visible distaste, then began chopping again, though her movents were stiff and uneven. The result was a collection of onion pieces ranging from crumbs to slabs thick enough to use as paperweights.
I leaned over, inspecting. "Interesting technique. Revolutionary, even. One piece to chew, one piece to choke on."
Her cheeks flushed faintly, but she kept cutting, jaw tight. "They will boil. It won’t matter."
"Oh, it’ll matter," I said solemnly. "Half will dissolve into mush. The other half will break soone’s tooth. Balance is key, Lady Freya."
Her knife hit the board with a sharp crack. "If you speak again, I will test the sharpness of this blade on you."
I raised my hands in surrender, though the grin stayed on my face. "Fair enough."
The onion went into the pot, hissing as it hit the bottom where the heat had begun to gather. The sll thickened, filling the kitchen with a pungent cloud. Freya recoiled slightly, fanning her face.
"It burns my eyes," she muttered.
"That’s how you know it’s working," I said, rubbing my own eyes, which were stinging. "Cooking is supposed to hurt."
"Ridiculous." She sniffed, blinking rapidly.
I wiped my eyes with the back of my sleeve and reached for the hanging strips of smoked at. The sll was rich, salty, heavy with preserved fat. My stomach gave a hopeful twist. "Alright, at ti."
Freya’s eyes widened slightly. "You can’t just drop it in."
"Why not?"
"It must be trimd. Properly cut. Cooked separately, then added to the pot."
I blinked at her. "And you know this from...?"
She paused. A beat too long. "I’ve seen it done."
"By your cooks," I guessed.
Her silence was answer enough.
I tore one of the strips down anyway, dropping it onto the cutting board with a wet slap. The fat glistened under the lamplight. My knife pressed in, not clean, not neat, but good enough to get chunks off.
Freya made a noise of horror. "You’re mangling it."
"I’m liberating it," I said, flicking a cube into the pot. It hissed as it hit the heat. "Cooking isn’t surgery, it’s art."
"Art does not look like that," she snapped.
I tossed another uneven piece into the pot just to spite her. "Sure it does. Abstract art."
Freya’s mouth opened, then closed again, as if words had failed her entirely. Her grip tightened on her knife until her knuckles turned pale.
To prove a point, she seized another strip of at and tried cutting it herself. Her movents were slow, deliberate, the cuts too shallow, the blade slipping awkwardly. The result was no better than mine: ragged chunks of at clinging together with fat.
I leaned close, peering over her shoulder. "Ah. A master at work."
She flushed again, more sharply this ti, and shoved the pieces into the pot with more force than necessary.
The sound of sizzling filled the room, thick and promising. The sll of at and onion rose with the smoke, wrapping the air in sothing that was almost appetizing. Almost.
Freya sniffed once, cautiously. "...It slls better than I expected."
"See?" I said, grabbing a handful of herbs from a tied bundle. "We’re already halfway to legendary status."
She frowned. "Wait. What are you doing?"
"Adding flavor."
"Not like that!"
"Like what then?" I demanded, holding the herbs over the pot.
"They must be asured, chopped, and mixed properly, dumbass."
I dropped the entire bundle in. The leaves wilted instantly, sinking into the broth.
Freya gasped, outrage flashing across her face. "You brute!"
"It’s called confidence," I said.
"It’s called barbarism."
"Details," I muttered, stirring the pot with a long wooden spoon.
The broth had turned cloudy, bits of carrot, onion, and at drifting like debris in muddy water.
Steam rolled upward, dampening my face. My arms ached already from the stirring, but at least it looked like progress.
Freya watched, lips pressed thin, before finally muttering, "It doesn’t look... entirely wrong."
"That’s the spirit," I said. "Embrace the chaos."
She shook her head and reached for the sack of flour. "Bread will be mine. You’re not allowed near it."
I chuckled. "This I have to see."
Bread. Just thinking about it makes nervous. Flour everywhere, water turning into paste, dough sticking to every surface, including .
And of course, Freya—noble lady extraordinaire—will probably faint at the first sll of raw yeast. I can already hear her muttering about barbarism and improper technique while I try not to spill the soup or set the kitchen on fire.
Honestly, cooking should co with hazard pay. Maybe I can convince her the bread is a mythical monster we’re slaying. At least then I’d have an excuse when the flour explodes and the fire starts crackling.
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