After knocking on the Wizard’s door, Chase shifted from foot to foot anxiously, glaring at the pot in his arms. He’d stuffed it with a variety of food -- more vegetables than could reasonably fit in one dish, some fruits, a few eggs, most of a bottle of milk, flour, sugar... Half his emergency pantry, really. If this wasn’t his favorite, industrial, half-the-town-is-snowed-in-the-bar-and-they’re-all-hungry pot, it wouldn’t have been able to hold all of it. In his front apron pocket, he’d tucked a few utensils and a versitile pan.
He didn’t need to be this nervous. How many times had he made much more complicated dinners for critics or important people and never broken a sweat? Food had been the focus of his life for so long that he dreamed in tastes, and with the tools and ingredients he’d brought, he could make half a dozen of his best recipes with his eyes closed.