It started as a joke. Beck had thrown down the challenge one lazy Saturday afternoon: a cooking competition to determine once and for all who could claim the title of the best chef among the three of you. You and Joe had laughed at first, imagining burnt toast and chaotic flour fights, but the moment Beck’s competitive spark ignited, you realized this was no ordinary challenge. Beck was serious—terrifyingly, laughably serious.

“Alright,” Beck declared, rolling up her sleeves and tossing her apron over her shoulder, “the rules are simple. Three rounds. Appetizer, main course, dessert. Winner takes bragging rights for a whole year.”

Joe groaned, already dreading the mess he knew would follow. “Bragging rights? That’s… actually terrifying. Who keeps score?”

“You do, obviously,” you said, trying to sound impartial, though inside you were already imagining yourself triumphantly dunking Beck’s face in a mixing bowl if she tried anything sneaky.

The first round began innocuously enough. You opted for a fresh, colorful salad with a tangy vinaigrette, Beck went all out with a visually stunning plate of bruschetta topped with edible flowers, and Joe, predictably, attempted a flambé that set off a small puff of smoke from the stove. You couldn’t help but laugh as Beck scowled at Joe’s disaster. “How is this even food?” she demanded.

Joe waved a spatula dramatically. “It’s… avant-garde!”