GROUNDED

Henri wiped his hands on the stained apron and glanced at the clock. Just 15 minutes before the head chef would arrive to taste his creations—a do-or-die audition for the position of a lifetime. He reached for his chef's jacket hanging by the door, fingers brushing against a small box tucked into the pocket. Inside lay a set of cufflinks shaped like tiny, elegant carrots. His mother had given them to him the day he left their family farm outside Lyon.

"Never forget the lesson of the carrot," she had said with a knowing smile. "It grows strong by going deep before it rises tall." He had chuckled at the time but wore them as talismans of her simple wisdom. Today, they grounded him.

The kitchen was a whirlwind, pots clanging, sous chefs calling orders, but Henri remained rooted, his focus sharp as he plated his signature dish—a rich carrot velouté with truffle foam. The scent was intoxicating, but it wasn’t the fragrance he needed to impress; it was precision, balance, and humility on a plate.

The head chef arrived, tasted silently, and then set his fork down with an approving nod. "Elegant. Grounded," was all he said. Henri adjusted his carrot cufflinks, breathing deeply. Roots first, always roots.