Frontier Chef: My Cooking Skills Are Broken-Chapter 35: Salt

The girl held her hand out before Ezra even made it back to the kitchen.

"You promised the salt."

"I haven’t even checked the pots yet."

"You said pots for salt, so I did the pots. Now give me the salt."

She was covered in enough volcanic soot that she practically blended into the walls.

Ezra grabbed the Renewal Salt from the stone ledge under the coal pit and held it above her head because he could.

"The pots better be clean."

"They are! Give it!"

He dropped the bag into her waiting hands and she clutched it against her chest with both arms and bolted out of the kitchen.

’Wonder where the hell she’s going.’

The kitchen was his in a way it hadn’t been that morning. The symbols were glowing steady, pulsing with that low heartbeat rhythm, and the counter was warm without him even touching it.

The hearth was doing that on its own now.

He went into the backrooms again to confirm the inventory. They were all there.

Same roots from yesterday, same grain, same barrels, same dung-smelling sack he’d been avoiding since the first time he opened it.

He paused.

The smell wasn’t coming from the sack of grain. The source came from another one behind it, a different sack with actual shit.

Worse yet, Palate Arts had something new to say about it.

The smell was still god-awful, but underneath there was a flavor compound that would break down under sustained heat and bind to the starch in the roots.

’You’re telling me the shit bag is a spice?’

[ Bzzt ]

He opened it and his eyes watered before his throat gagged. Luckily the girl wasn’t here because this would’ve ended the custody arrangement on the spot.

Inside were dried chunks of something dark and rigid, crumbling at the edges.

It looked like the tree bark of a Cartigon’s hind ass.

"Appraisal."

[ Fermented Cartigon Feces — Uncommon ]

> Profile: Dried intestinal byproduct. Pungent exterior conceals a thermally reactive flavor compound. Sustained heat breaks down the outer membrane and releases a binding agent compatible with starch-heavy root vegetables.

He put a chunk on the counter, cursed under his breath because he used his bare fingers, and admitted defeat before raising his palm over the counter.

The hearth amplified it and the chunk started breaking down, the outer layer crumbling into powder while the inside softened into something that smelled less like shit and more like acceptable shit.

He ground the powder between his palms and mixed it into the root slices he’d saved from earlier along with a sack of grain sitting on the stone.

Ezra watched as he let the roots sear onto the counter. The hearth-amplified heat warped around the roots and held firm, cooking it in all directions no matter how it lay.

In other words, Ezra didn’t have to flip anymore.

The roots caramelized darker at the edges. The grain he tossed along the roots picked up the earthy sharpness from the dung powder and actually held.

The smell hit the commons before the first batch was done.

He heard his footsteps before he saw his beard. Quick about it, but not meaning to intrude. The smith showed up at the open front and he looked pissed, which was separate from the food.

"Something took my work off the anvil." His beard moved up and down.

"Huh?"

"An obsidian core I’ve been shaping for two days. Gone while I took a piss." The smith was peering into the kitchen like he already knew who to look for. "I saw jackal prints in the soot."

"That’s crazy. You should look into that." Ezra slid a root slice across the counter. "Try this."

The smith stared at him for a moment. He picked it up and bit into it.

He made sure all of the root made it into his mouth this time.

"What the hell is in this?"

"The brown sack," Ezra said. "The one with the shit."

"The one that smells like—shit?"

"Yessir."

"Hmm." The smith reached for a second slice which Ezra had already slid across for him.

The obsidian was already forgotten.

More people showed up after that, attracted by the smell or the warmth, or both.

With the sun going down, the heat was cooling. In a few hours, the chill would come and stay for the rest of the night.

Most of the Harkenians were the ones who were there for breakfast, some from the crowd that followed him that afternoon.

Ezra cooked and the hearth did its work. The counter glowed brighter with each batch and the golden light was starting to creep past the open front.

Even the two old grandmas were back. They got their own slices and touched up on Ezra’s abs before he could say no and they were already on their way.

Everyone was, in fact.

He cooked, they showed up, and then they left.

’Works for me.’

[ Event Summary ]

> Crafted: Meal (★★) x3

> +450 Frontier Tokens

[ Wallet ]

> 4,950 Frontier Tokens

"Excuse me."

A woman was standing at the edge of the kitchen entrance. Curly hair past her shoulders, brown eyes, a thin veil over the lower half of her face. And on her hip, a leather satchel. A similar one that Neve carried before she lost it to the river.

She’d been standing there for a while, working up the nerve, or waiting until the flock thinned.

"I was sent by the Emerald Avian to look at your injuries."

Ezra raised an eyebrow. "That sounds nothing like what she’d do."

"Your back needs attention," the woman continued. "Let me help with it."

Ezra had genuinely forgotten. The hearth had been keeping his muscles warm and the cooking had kept his brain elsewhere. But now with every breath, a cascading pain went from his spine to his shoulders.

"She tried to get you admitted to the building first." The woman stepped inside and she was already closer than she needed to be. "The commander’s son wouldn’t allow it."

’Theron. Of course.’

"So she sent me here instead. Anyway, will you let me?"

"Will there be needles?"

"If you do not count my nails, no."

That’s all he needed to hear.

Ezra absolutely loathed needles.

"Restoration potion." She fumbled with the satchel and held a vial between both hands. "Deep tissue repair. All of it, please."

He took it and gulped it down. It was the same potion as whatever Neve had thumbed into his mouth in the jungle. It still tasted like shit, minus the taste of skin.

Neve’s skin.

"Disgusting as ever," Ezra said, gagging for a moment.

"They always are. I need to see your back now. May I?"

Ezra turned around and she lifted his shirt. Her fingers pressed into the bruise and traced the whatever outline it had on his back.

"This covers most of your upper back." The healer’s voice dropped quieter. "Deep muscular damage, not surface."

She pressed higher and Ezra flinched.

"Sorry." Her hand stayed though. "The spine is intact; vertebrae aren’t displaced."

"Cool."

"It shouldn’t be cool." She traced along his spine with both hands now, one vertebra at a time, and her touch was slower than it needed to be. "Theron is one of our strongest fighters. That hit should have broken your back."

Her fingers stopped between his shoulder blades. Her breath was on his neck and the commons behind them had gone quiet.

’When did everyone leave?’

"Your muscles took the full impact without structural failure. I don’t have an explanation for that."

"Still hurts like shit though, lady."

"I’m sure." She pulled his shirt down but her hand stayed on his lower back. "The potion handles the inflammation. Don’t sleep on your back tonight. You should sit while it settles."

"As you can see," Ezra said, waving at the bare kitchen, "there are no chairs."

The woman’s eyes lit up, then died all at once. "The floor, then. We can sit on the floor."

Ezra looked her up and down. She was no taller than Leyla, and that was saying something considering Leyla already struggled at five feet.

"I’m the one injured, why do you need to sit?"

"Well, I should stay while the potion settles. It’ll only take twenty minutes or so." She took his wrist and pressed two fingers against the vein. "Pulse check. The potion can speed it up."

His pulse was fine. Even he knew that. Her thumb traced a slow circle on the inside of his wrist and he figured that was part of it.

’Neve probably told her to be thorough.’

The hearth was the only light left. The kitchen felt different without thirty people in it. The veil on her face had slipped and she wasn’t fixing it.

"Please sit," she said. Her hands were already around his and pulling them down with her to the stone.

"One more thing," she said, and she leaned in. Her curls brushed his jaw and her hand found his arm and her lips were at his ear. "The Emerald Avian wants you in traveling condition."

"Why—"

The healer brought her fingers to his hand, bathed in the warmth that radiated from his palm. "She wouldn’t tell me why, but she’s preparing for something and she needs you functional."

She pulled back and her brown eyes held his for a second too long.

"I’m sorry," she whispered closer now.

Her breath was minty, a flavor he wouldn’t think he’d ever smell again. "It’s not too often you see a man of your stature."