Elodie laughs. “Honey, you’ve got more men fighting over your cooking skills than Julia Child!”
“Is this a cooking competition or a romantic triangle with garnish?” Tinsley snorts, which interestingly enough, gets a few chuckles from the other couples. “This is ridiculous.”
“Correction: this isdelicious,” Elodie purrs with predatory satisfaction. “And we haven’t even started cooking yet.”
Bess nods. “Trixie, you’ve managed to create more steam in here than one of those commercial ovens.”
A small applause goes off as if they were watching premium entertainment.
Tinsley snorts once again. “Looks like some people get to have their cake and eat it, too.”
The temperature in the kitchen drops approximately twenty degrees as everyone processes the barely veiled accusation hanging in the herb-scented air.
“It’s just cooking.” I protest, which sounds about as convincing as someone claiming they’re on a diet while stealing fries off someone’s plate. Not that I’m stealing Wes—or the other way around.
Wes approaches our station with a confident stride as if to sayhe’s navigated more challenging waters than kitchen politics, before rolling up his sleeves to reveal forearms that probably have their own fan club among the female passengers.
“Shall we get started?” he asks with the kind of easy charm that makes the whole room offer up a spontaneous applause once again. They’re a happy group, I’ll give them that.
The timer starts, and suddenly the kitchen erupts into organized chaos that’s equal parts cooking competition and relationship analysis in real time.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” I ask as Wes begins organizing our ingredients with professional efficiency that puts my usual kitchen disasters to shame.
“Captain’s duties include emergency meal preparation,” he’s quick to tell me as his hands move with the kind of competent precision that suggests he’s equally comfortable navigating storms and sauces. “Plus, I spent summers working in my uncle’s restaurant in Maine.”
We fall into a natural rhythm that’s frankly alarming in its ease—he handles the technical aspects while I focus on prep work and trying not to get distracted by how well we work together. Our teamwork flows so well, it’s as if we’ve been cooking partners for years instead of reluctant substitutes thrown together by maritime emergencies.
Meanwhile, the other couples are providing enough entertainment to power the ship’s comedy shows for a month.
Nettie has already set something on fire—I’m not sure what, but smoke is rising from their station while her partner looks simultaneously terrified and charmed by whatever chaos she’s unleashing.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a sauce situation at station three!” she announces like she’s providing play-by-play commentary for a sporting event.
“I haven’t seen this much sizzling since my third husband’s poker nights!” she continues, which gets uncomfortable laughter from the couples who aren’t sure if that’s a cooking reference or something more scandalous.
Elodie and her gentleman have apparently decided that seduction is more important than food preparation, their wine disappearing faster than their ingredients while theycreate what can only be described as an artistic disaster that somehow still looks elegant.
Tinsley continues to treat the competition like a military operation, barking orders at her silver fox while consulting her clipboard with such seriousness, you’d think she was coordinating international relief efforts.
“Timing is crucial!” she declares, pointing at her timeline like it holds the secrets of culinary success. “We need the protein started in exactly three minutes and forty-seven seconds!”
Claudette and Mark’s station resembles a passive-aggressive marriage counseling session disguised as food preparation, their tense perfectionism creating an atmosphere that could curdle cream. And they can probably use that curdled cream in their recipe, too.
“That’s not how you dice onions,” Claudette says with the kind of critical aggression that suggests she’s commenting on more than vegetables.
“Sorry,” Mark replies, his forehead tattoo glistening with far too much nervous sweat. “I’ll do better.”
Jazz and Rob’s Zen cooking philosophy is meeting harsh reality as Rob meditates over vegetables while Jazz panics about timing.
“The universe will provide the proper seasoning,” Rob announces with cosmic confidence while their sauce threatens to burn.
“The universe needs to provide it faster!” Jazz shoots back with desperation, as if watching enlightenment go up in smoke.
But Bess and Rex are actually producing something that looks edible, their sweet romantic moments and patient teaching creating the kind of partnership that makes the rest of us look like amateurs.
“Trixie, honey, that’s not how you hold a whisk!” Nettie calls out as I attempt to tackle our sauce. “Let the captain show you!”
Wes moves behind me to guide my hands, and suddenly, the entire kitchen’s attention focuses on us like we’re performing dinner theater instead of cooking competition.
