The ingredients appeared—placed by attendants Marron hadn't noticed before, young people who moved with the quiet efficiency of those who belonged here. While the judges had not allowed Marron to use the food cart, it was by her side as she cooked.
On her counter: root vegetables (not rootknots, but similar—knobby and irregular), dried beans in three colors, a handful of herbs (wild thyme, mountain sage, something pungent she didn't recognize), and a clay vessel of water.
Simple. Humble. The kind of ingredients that required skill to transform into something meaningful.
Across the platform, another challenger had approached. A man in his thirties wearing chef's whites from some city establishment—Lumeria maybe, or one of the other major centers. His expression held polite confidence and the kind of professional competence that came from years in kitchens.
