The kitchen slowly woke up, like a creature stretching its limbs.
Steam curled up from freshly heated water, knives were laid out, bowls appeared where bowls should be, while the cutting boards waited for hands to give them purpose.
Ludwig stood at the center of it, apron tied, his scars showing its texture under the runic light. He watched the flow for a moment, listening to the familiar rhythm.
Then he spoke.
"Alright. We'll do a new thing today."
That was enough to draw attention of his employees.
He placed a basket on the central table and unpacked it slowly. Eggplants first, their deep purple skin catching the light. Zucchini, firm and pale green. Tomatoes still a little chilly from the morning air. Bell peppers in red and yellow. Onions and garlic followed, along with a small bundle of herbs.
"Today, we will turn these vegetables into much better food."
Valerie chimed in at that moment. "So pretty."
"Right?" Ludwig looked at her and smile. He then turned to Finka and Bilo. "You two. This will be about knife control, not speed."
They stepped closer instinctively.
Ludwig picked up an eggplant and set it on the board. "The dish I want to make is called Ratatouille. But not just any Ratatouille, I want a fancy and beautiful one. Every cut will be thin and even. There will be no chunks nor wedges in it."
He demonstrated slowly, knife gliding through the flesh with minimal pressure. Each slice landed flat, almost identical to the last.
"No forcing it." He said. "Let the knife do the work and don't rush. If you rush, it wouldn't be beautiful."
Bilo mimicked the motion, tongue slightly poking out in concentration. Unfortunately, his first slice was a bit thick.
But Ludwig didn't correct him verbally. He just placed a thinner slice beside it.
Bilo nodded and adjusted.
Finka, on the other hand, took a different approach. She was doing it in a steady, deliberate manner, checking thickness with her fingers before committing to the next cut.
"That's good." Ludwig said.
Bilo and FInka moved through vegetables together under Ludwig's gaze. Zucchini, Tomatoes, and Bell peppers were trimmed into curved slices that would layer cleanly.
"This dish teaches patience." Ludwig added casually. "Which is why it's annoying to make."
Valerie snickered before Vilera shot her a look.
Smiling, he continued. "I believe I can leave the hard part to you guys?"
Both Finka and Bilo stopped after slicing another piece before looking at him. "Yessir!"
Satisfied with their answer, Ludwig moved his gaze toward Vilera, Valerie, and Zhark. "Now you three."
Ludwig pulled the Aurelscales he bought earlier from his Storage Dimension and put it in the countertop.
"Aurelscale." He said, setting it down. "Summer fish with clean flavor."
Zhark leaned in slightly, interested.
"Zhark, Vilera, Valerie, you guys are on cleaning duty."
Valerie perked up. "Ah, I can help with this."
"Yes." Ludwig said. "Because you can't set water on fire."
"That was one time!"
They moved to the sink in an instant. Ludwig showed them how to descale without tearing the skin, how to gut cleanly, how to rinse without washing away flavor once before passing the baton to them.
"Gentle." He reminded Zhark, who adjusted instantly, massive hands suddenly careful.
Vilera worked efficiently, eyes sharp, while Valerie narrated everything she did like it was a performance.
When the fish were cleaned and set aside, Ludwig washed his hands and moved to the long table.
Knowing they were experienced in it, Ludwig moved his focus elsewhere.
The pasta. The homemade pasta with Meat Ragu that he wanted to make.
Ludwig dusted the long table with flour and rolled his shoulders once, settling into a familiar rhythm.
Then, he pulled a sack of coarse flour from his Storage Dimension and poured them onto the steel table, shaping it into a wide mound before pressing a hollow into the center.
The flour wasn't white or delicate. It still smelled faintly of grain and earth, exactly the kind he wanted. He cracked the eggs into the well one by one. The yolks were thick and richly colored, sitting heavy and alive against the rough flour. A pinch of salt followed. Nothing more.
He worked quietly, breaking the yolks and drawing the flour inward with controlled movements. The mixture resisted at first, separating and sticking, but he didn't hurry it. His fingers adjusted instinctively until the dough began to come together.
Once it did, he folded it onto itself and began kneading.
Push. Fold. Turn. And repeat.
The dough slowly changed beneath his hands, tightening, smoothing, and warming. Ludwig adjusted pressure without thinking, reading it through touch rather than sight. When it reached the right elasticity, he shaped it into a ball and covered it with a cloth, letting it rest.
However, rather than bending the time to his liking, he just turned to the ragù while time did its work.
He pulled the secondary cut he brought to the kitchen. They were always enough for ragù. Premium cuts were simply wrong for it. They were too easy to coax, too eager to be tender. On the contrary, secondary muscles like chuck, neck, shank, ribs were parts that were used for living. They were meat threaded with sinew and quiet resistance.
He cut them into large chunks, deliberately uneven, because uniformity would only cooked them too quickly.
The pot went on the fire before anything else. He added the fat only after the pot was ready. When the surface shimmered, the meat went in, one batch at a time.
Ludwig waited like he always do. Meat told you when it was ready to move. Until then, touching it only robbed it of color.
The browning took time. Deep color, bordering on dark, but never crossing into bitterness. When the pieces finally released from the pot, he set them aside without ceremony. Rest mattered, even for meat.
In the same pot, the soffritto took its place. Onion first. Always onion first. Then carrots. Then celery. Everything chopped by hand, small enough to disappear, but not so small it would burn. He kept the heat low. The sharpness softened, sweetness rising slowly as the vegetables absorbed what the beef had left behind.
Only then did Ludwig consider tomatoes.
If he were to use them, they should be fresh and ripe enough to bruise under pressure. He crushed them by hand, letting pulp, juice, and seeds fall freely. Skins didn't concern him. Time would deal with them far better than knives ever could.
He deglazed the pot with water, scraping up every dark fragment from the bottom. Nothing stuck by accident. Then the beef returned, along with the juices it had released while resting.
The tomatoes followed, sparingly. Not enough to drown the meat. Just enough to stain the fat red. Ragù, to Ludwig, was never a tomato sauce with meat added. The tomatoes were there to support, not to lead.
A bay leaf slipped in. A pinch of pepper if the moment allowed. Salt, but lightly. Tomatoes lied early. It was wiser to listen to them later.
Water came last. Just enough to barely cover the meat.
He covered the pot, leaving a narrow gap, and lowered the heat until the surface barely moved.
Once he was done, he enveloped the Ragù and the pasta dough he had set aside with his time mana. Inside the confine of it, time moves forward.
When Ludwig released the mana back to air, the change was subtle, the way good things usually were.
The dough greeted him first.
He lifted the cloth and pressed a finger into the surface. It yielded, then slowly pushed back, no longer fighting itself. The roughness from earlier was gone. The flour had fully taken in the eggs, the gluten relaxed into something cooperative. When he cut the dough in half, the cross-section was clean and uniform, no dry pockets hiding inside.
Good.
He rolled it out again, thinner this time, the pin gliding with barely any resistance. The sheet stretched wide across the table, pale gold and faintly translucent at the edges. He dusted it lightly and folded it over itself, then cut it into broad ribbons with long, confident strokes.
The strands separated easily when he lifted them, falling into loose nests that held their shape without clinging. He laid them out to rest, letting the air kiss their surface just enough.
Then he turned to the pot.
The ragù had changed in a way that couldn't be rushed without magic. The liquid inside had darkened, thickened, reduced to something glossy and heavy. When Ludwig lifted the lid, the aroma rose slowly, rich and deep, not sharp, not loud. Meat and fat and time, woven together.
He stirred once.
The chunks resisted the spoon only slightly now, breaking apart at the edges. Collagen had melted into the sauce, giving it weight without greasiness. The tomatoes had all but disappeared, leaving behind body and a quiet sweetness. The bay leaf drifted near the surface, having done its work.
He then tasted it.
It didn't need much. A touch more salt maybe. Nothing else.
Satisfied, Ludwig lowered the flame and let the pot breathe again, content to sit where it was. Around him, the kitchen continued its steady motion, vegetables being layered with care, fish resting clean and ready, oil warming for later.
There was no fanfare or announcement.
Just food, reaching the point where it could finally become a meal.
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