Mistress Of Spices Mga Nobela at Kwento

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I stood by the counter, with my sleeves rolled up, explaining a small trick I’d learned years ago on how to bloom spices properly before adding them to a stew, how heat could coax out flavors if you were patient enough. The maid with kind eyes watched closely. “So you don’t just dump everything in at once?” she asked. I shook my head, smiling. “No. You let them wake up first. Just a little oil, low heat. You’ll smell the difference immediately.” She tried it, her eyes widened when the aroma shifted. “Oh wow.” The others leaned in, murmuring in amazement. “That’s brilliant,” someone said. I laughed softly, a warmth blooming in my chest. “It’s simple, really—”

The scent of spices and simmering sauces enveloped us, a stark contrast to the cool detachment in her demeanor. After a pregnant pause, she sighed, relenting just slightly. "Very well, show me what you can do. But remember, you're representing this mansion. Any mistakes, and the consequences will be severe." With a nod, I threw myself back into the culinary ballet, the head maid watching my every move. I diced, sautéed, and stirred with meticulous precision, determined to prove my culinary prowess. The head maid, though begrudgingly, acknowledged the tantalising aroma emanating from the kitchen.

There was only the smell of roasted fish and the warmth of the hearth. "Master Malachi?" The Grand Queen Mother called out sounding confused. "Are you saying you lost?" "I am saying she is the true Master Chef." Malachi said, bowing his head to me. "She did not use any foreign spices or spell. She used her hands and her soul. I must confess that I am a student today." The crowd erupted. It was not a cheer of joy but a roar of shock. The Elders whispered among themselves. The Grand Queen Mother looked at the signed execution order on her table.

The stone rim was deep from years of grinding, its insides still fragrant with cloves, cumin, and dried red chilies. She carefully poured the freshly ground spices into a steel plate, stood, and walked over to Ridhima, placing it beside her. “Ready,” she whispered, stepping back and pulling the scarf off her head — the same one she'd tied earlier while pounding spices. She set it aside and asked lightly, “Anything else you want from me?” Ridhima looked up with a smile, still stirring the pot. “Nahi, bas ho gaya Aabroo. Ab jao aur gaon ke bacchon ke saath masti karo.”

He chewed slowly, closing his eyes for a moment. “This tastes different,” he commented, his deep voice echoing in the room. He wiped his lips with the napkin and stared at me. “What did you put in this, Maia? It’s a spice I don’t recognize.” “It’s an old recipe from my grandmother, Aser,” I replied, my voice soft, almost musical. “She used to say that certain essences only reveal their true power when simmered over a low flame, under the weight of patience.” “It’s delicious,” he declared, returning to his food greedily. “At least you’re good for one thing.”

My stomach growled. Instinct took over. I padded to the tablet on the nightstand and tapped into the digital concierge. I ordered a full-course meal: rosemary chicken, roasted vegetables, creamy truffle pasta, freshly squeezed orange juice, and tiramisu for dessert. Lavish. Almost laughably so. But indulging in it felt like rebellion. Like saying, If I’m going to be their puppet, then I’ll at least eat like a queen. The idea made me chuckle—bitterly.

What if she’d somehow ended up in this very mall, wandering the same halls? “Alpha Rune, are you even listening?” Lila’s voice cut through my thoughts again, sharper this time. I looked down at her, realizing she’d been talking, probably for a while now. “Sorry. What did you say?” She huffed, clearly frustrated. “I was saying, this vendor here has the best herbs and spices. The pack deserves quality ingredients, don’t you think?” I nodded, mostly just to keep her moving. “Yes, sure. Quality is important.”

Her lips were done in a dark red ruby shade, making them look much more inviting. She waved her hand, motioning for Jeremy to waltz over and take her order. He didn't waste a second before making his way to her side, and I overheard her ordering an Apple Martini. Jeremy was quicker than a whistle trying to make her drink, "Slow down, man. Making her drink isn't going to make her like you any faster." "What are you talking about?" He nearly dropped the shaker out of his hands, concentrating at the job and talking to me at the same time.

A bit depressed I ordered a coffee, iced Americano to be precise and waited at the customer seat for my order to be ready. The Christmas song rang again and a lot of ladies wearing a "Vote Prichard for mayor" accessories walked in, taking a much closer look at them I was able to figure out the head leader to be one of my classmates back in highschool, her nickname was.... Cutsie Poopsie, Yes! That was her nickname.