This is the archival version of "Who is Frustrating the Great Chefs
of Europe?"  It is an unfinished anime-based Ranma ½ fanfic 
originally posted on FFML in 1997. I don't know how many readers
it had; the perception that there was not much interest caused me to
leave it unfinished. Although it has been a number of years since
this was written, I do still have a rough idea how it was supposed
to end. Inquiries in that regard are welcome. I have left in the 
acknowledgements to my pre-readers;  I am no longer in touch with two
of them, but send them best wishes and renewed thanks.

"Great Chefs" is a mixture of Ranma ½ fanfic with certain literary
styles such as post-structuralism and magic realism. The latter are
to be found in the biographical sections called "Deep Character
Development Time"  about the great chefs, which are very weird. If 
you find those not to your taste, skip over them; there is plenty
of pseudo-Takahashi mayhem elsewhere.

Unusual for the 1997 fanfic scene is the appearance, as a background
character, of Kirin, the Chinese prince from the first Ranma ½ movie.
I apologize for any weaknesses in my depiction of Principal Kuno;
I was working from descriptions in writing about him, never having
seen the original.

     _Matt Posner, 7/27/03


All Ranma ½ characters property of Rumiko Takahashi and companies
that produce and distribute her work. They are used without 
permission, but no challenge to copyright status is intended.
This story is not for sale; anyone can have a copy free, but 
characters belonging to the author (the three Great Chefs) should
not be used elsewhere without permission.

Thanks to my prereaders:  in  alphabetical order, Matt Chock, Gary
Kleppe, and Anand Rao. You guys rule.


Greetings. It is Kirin, leader of the Seven Lucky Gods Martial 
Artists, who is speaking to you. It is well-known of Kirin that he is
ruler of Nekonlon, China, and there he fought Ranma Saotome for the
heart of Akane Tendo, and was defeated utterly. Kirin has gone on to
other pursuits, but he has not forgotten Akane Tendo's kind attempt
to cook for him something besides rice and pickled vegetables,
and so, when an opportunity has presented itself, Kirin, being 
pragmatic and wise as well as swift, handsome, and unspeakably
wealthy, has taken advantage of it. Kirin has sent a gift to Akane
Tendo. This gift has provoked the story that is called

Who is Frustrating the Great Chefs of Europe? A Ranma ½ Fanfiction
by Matt Posner


Chapter One

     Akane Tendo was in the middle of her trigonometry test when 
Principal Kuno poked his evergreen-topped head into the classroom
and called her name.
     "Akane Tendo, ha ha, little waihine, som'un come see you, you 
come to office right now, yes?"
     Akane nodded and put down her ruler and pencil. She was tired
of graphing sine and cosine curves anyway.
     "Cut hair over ears, yes?" the principal said as he walked with
her through the halls. "Shave sideburns."
     "I don't have any sideburns!" Akane snapped at him.
     "Ha ha, use straight razor on mustache. Wash upper lip with 
special pineapple juice. Ha ha."
     Akane ignored his babbling.
     To her surprise, she saw her father and Genma Saotome in the 
office. Principal Kuno walked off, still prating about special 
pineapple juice, adding in "Big kahuna get some and show them."
     "Dad! What's wrong?"
     Soun beamed. "Akane! Something wonderful has happened! We have
the most marvelous house guests! I want you to come home and meet 
them right away!"
     "The best part," Genma said, "is the free food."
     Akane went back to class, gathered up her books, and went to 
meet her father on the front steps of Furinkan. As she headed for the
front entrance, Ranma emerged from a classroom and fell into step 
beside her.
     "Where you headed, Akane?"
     "Home, if it's any of your business. Something about house 
guests bringing free food."
     "Well, that would sure be a change," Ranma admitted. "Think
I'll come check it out."
     "Suit yourself."
     Suddenly Ranma seized her and leapt forward. Behind them, Akane
heard a loud SPLAT! When Ranma landed, she realized one of his hands
was over one of her breasts. Immediately she put her fist in his 
face, and following the satisfying grunt of pain, turned to see what
had caused the noise.
     "Special pineapple juice," Principal Kuno said, his jaws 
dripping with it. He was holding a large pitcher. Some of its sticky
contents had been transferred to the tile floor. "Change bad 
long-hair students into good students. All hair fall out, everyone
big smiling, yes?"
     While Ranma slumped to the floor, Genma Saotome came striding
up the stairs and into the school, followed more casually by Soun.
     "Now just a moment," Genma said to the Principal. He puffed
up his chest, and his glasses gleamed as he pressed his lips 
together. "I find myself wondering why you would choose to throw 
pineapple juice at my son."
     "He does this junk all the time, pop," Ranma groaned as he 
started to get up.
     "Ah ha," Genma said. "So he's assisting you with your martial
arts training."
     Akane wasn't interested in this discussion. She went to her 
father. "Who's staying with us, dad?"
     "It's our salvation," Soun said, grinning. "With the help of 
these three gentlemen, you'll be able to get married all the sooner!
They'll save us all, Akane! They'll save us all!"
     "Who are they?!? If you think I'm going to get married, you can
forget it!"
     "They're..." Soun nodded his head respectfully, as if speaking
of a departed relative. "They're the three greatest chefs in all of 
Europe."
     As she stood struggling to find words, Akane could hear behind
her Principal Kuno say, "Big kahuna no waste special juice on little
kahuna."
     Genma gave a small, mocking laugh.  "Little? I'll have you know
you're looking at a master of the Saotome School of Anything-Goes
Indiscriminate Grappling."
      "Big kahuna feed mahi-mahi with secret sauce, change little
kahuna into..."
      "Well, if you think you can make me eat anything you serve,
you're sadly mistaken, my friend." 
     "Like you ever turned down free food, Pop!" Ranma inserted.
      "Shut up, boy! This argument is a matter of honor."
     "You're crazy!" Ranma said.
      "Big kahuna _make_ you eat!" the Principal shouted, resuming
his part of the argument.
      "Is that a challenge?" Genma seemed eager for it to be one. 
"Ranma, the honor of our school is at stake."
      "The three greatest WHAT?" Akane finally shouted.
     "The three greatest chefs," Soun said. "Chef Pierre, master
of fish and flesh, from the French Riviera; Chef Luigi, a pasta 
specialist from Venice, Italy; and Chef Gottfried, Vienna's finest
pastry maker." His cheeks were red and stretched from smiling.
"They're going to teach my little girl to cook, and then she can get
married and..."
     "No way!" Akane shouted. "I'm tired of everyone trying to teach
me how to cook! I don't need any stupid cooking lessons!"
     As she stomped back up the hallway, she could vaguely hear 
Principal Kuno and Genma shouting at each other about some kind of 
martial arts duel. "Humph!" Akane said. "I'd better go finish that
test."
     One leap put Ranma next to her. "Don't need cooking lessons,
huh? Or is the real truth that you're afraid the lessons won't work,
and you'll still turn the kitchen into a nuclear war zone?"
     Akane was about to punch him again. "Oh, forget it," she said.
"This is too stupid even to fight over."
     When she got home that evening, there was a large black truck
pulled out outside her house. Delicious smells came from the house.
Ranma, who was with her but  rubbing his jaw instead of talking,
ran ahead to look in the truck. Akane stopped and watched him. He 
leapt to the top of the vehicle, ran to the back, and leaned over and
in to study the contents. Then he dropped down and ran inside. Akane
shrugged and headed for the front door. It was standing wide open.
As Akane stepped inside, a delightful but alien aroma caught her 
nose. The odor was subtle, almost sensual; alternately it was 
delicate and strong, and seemed almost to _throb_ with power. She 
found herself moving toward it... ... and a short, very fat man in 
trousers, a white tank-top, and a puffy white hat lurched out of the
kitchen, directly into her path, his eyes wild as he swung a huge 
ceramic bowl at her head. "Try my. . ." he shouted. Startled,
Akane kicked the bowl out of his hand and into his face, then sank
her fist into his soft gut and planted a high kick into the bowl 
where it rested across his head. The fat man toppled over backwards,
red ooze pouring through the cracks in the bowl. "Oh, no!" Akane 
said. "Did I..." The sides of the bowl fell away. The delicious
odor emerged from a heap of spaghetti and red sauce on the man's 
face. His eyes were rolled back into his head, but his pink tongue
darted almost autonomically at the mound of food that surmounted
him. "Nice going, Sis," Nabiki said from the stairwell. She leaned
over the banister with a clever look on her face. "You just kayoed
tonight's dinner." "Is that one of those stupid chefs?" Akane said.
Now that she looked at the man, she saw he didn't look dangerous.
He was fat, small, and soft, and the hat he was wearing was the kind
of hat they wore on cooking contest shows. He must have been showing
her the food, rather than attacking her with it. "Chef Luigi," Nabiki
said. "He gave Kasumi the night off. Figures she went to go cook for
Dr. Tofu. Hope Tofu has homeowner's insurance." "They're really 
here," Akane said. "Why?" "Figures I have to do the explanations
again," Nabiki said. "I am just simply _dying_ for a little bit of 
character development. Oh, well. First off, look at this." She 
reached into her pocket and pulled out a mallet. "Whoops. You've
got to stop borrowing my clothes, Akane. Ah, here we go." She tossed
aside the mallet and pulled out an envelope with Chinese characters
on it and tossed it to Akane. Akane recognized the writing:  it said
"Nekonlon." From the envelope she pulled out a card. Fortunately,
the text on the card was written in Japanese.

"Dear Akane Tendo:

Greetings. It is Kirin, leader of the Seven Lucky Gods, who is 
writing to you. Kirin remembers you kindly for trying to cook good
food to please him. Kirin remembers that your fiancé said he did not
like your cooking.  Kirin recently learned that the three best chefs
in Europe were touring Japan appearing on television cooking game 
shows. Kirin is wise and thoughtful and also unspeakably wealthy,
so he has hired them to live with your family for a week to teach
you how to cook in a way that will win your fiancé's heart. Kirin
does not understand why you and your fiancé cannot simply eat rice
and pickled vegetables,  but Kirin wants you to be happy. It will 
cost your family nothing because Kirin is paying for everything,
because of course Kirin is staggeringly wealthy and Kirin owns 
enormous quantities of gold, jewels, and priceless jade vases from
long-ago Chinese Imperial Dynasties, and Kirin also holds stock in 
IBM and Wal-Mart. Kirin wants you to be happy.

Signed,

Kirin"

     Akane looked down at Chef Luigi, who was beginning to stir. This
whole thing was ridiculous.  (Yeah, I know, but please avoid the 
cheap shot - author.) This guy wasn't going to teach her anything.
     "Well, there you have it, Sis," Nabiki said. "Kirin's quite a 
letter writer, huh?"



Chapter Two

     Inside the truck was the most fully stocked kitchen Ranma had 
ever seen. Besides several humming refrigerators, there were three
different kinds of stove burners, two different kinds of ovens, and
a tremendous variety of sparkling utensils and multiple sizes and 
shapes of pot and pan. A spice rack mounted against the front of the
truck held what looked like at least two hundred different 
seasonings, labeled in many languages. A large pot of soup was 
simmering on one of the burners. Ranma stepped over to it, picked
a ladle from the wall, and was about to taste it when a bizarre
voice yelled, "Stop!"
     Ranma leapt out of the way of a hurtling butcher knife. It 
clanked against the wall near the spice rack. He turned rapidly
toward the rear entrance of the truck, spotted his assailant and 
launched a flying kick. The man, whoever he was, went flying out the
back of the truck and landed in the street. Ranma climbed out after
him. He was a tall, lean, black-haired man with a waxed mustache.
He was wearing a chef's hat. He lay in the road, mumbling in French.
His eyes jogged around in their sockets.
     "Great, this is one of those crazy chefs," he said.
     "That's right, boy," Genma said from nearby. "That's Chef 
Pierre, and Akane has just knocked out Chef Luigi."
     "At least no one knocked out the other guy yet."
     "Well, actually," Genma said, "Happosai was here earlier,
and..."
     "Never mind, Pop, I get the picture. Look, do you really think
these guys are for real?"
     "I've already eaten a lunch prepared by Chef Pierre, and a 
delicate sponge cake baked by Chef Gottfried. They're for real all 
right, Ranma. And I've got news for you:  you're going to take 
lessons from them also."
     Ranma imagined long hours in the kitchen with odd-smelling
gaijin, and with the stenches, flying debris, and explosions
that always attended Akane's efforts. "No thanks, Pop."
     Genma stooped and lifted Chef Pierre to his feet. Chef Pierre's
eyes rolled in various directions as the elder Saotome carried him to
the truck and leaned him against the back bumper.
     "First of all," he said, "you owe it to your fiancée to stand
by her side in this, her greatest challenge. Second of all, and much
more important, you're going to need cooking skills yourself to 
defend our family honor against Principal Kuno in the pineapple
cooking contest."
     "The _what?_"
     "The pineapple cooking contest."
     Ranma imagined long hours in the kitchen dodging pineapples
and cans of pineapple juice, blocking flying coconuts, and barely
ducking out of the way of a wide variety of shears, electric razors,
and grenades full of depilatory.
     "A cooking contest against Principal Kuno? Forget it."
     "Not against Principal Kuno," Genma said. The setting sun shone
red on his glasses. "He's going to pick a representative
from his own martial arts family to compete, the same way I've picked
you."
     Ranma imagined a cooking contest against Tatewaki Kuno. Huge 
pots stirred with wooden swords. Wall-sized pinups of the Two Hot 
Tamales. Impromptu poetry about stir-fry.
     "What do I get out of this?"
     "You defend the honor of the Saotome school of..."
     "What do I get out of this?"
     "Well..."  Genma scratched his head. "I was sort of hoping I 
wouldn't have to tell you what the additional victory conditions
were."
     Ranma imagined opening an industrial oven and, wearing Akane's
pig-shaped oven mitts, pulling out a huge roast panda.
     "Tell me the additional victory conditions."
     "Well, if you win, Principal Kuno has to pay for all repairs
to the Tendo dojo for the next year. That would take a lot of 
pressure away from us, Ranma."
     Ranma nodded. "OK, but what if his team wins?"
     "Well..." Genma pressed his hands together. "You see..."
     "Spit it out, Pop."
     "Principal Kuno shaves you bald in front of your entire school."
     "No!"
     "Don' taste ze soup stock before eet  ees done," Chief Pierre
mumbled from his perch on the truck bumper. One of his eyes was back
in its orbit; the other still rolled crazily. "Zees ees beeg no-no,
yes?"
     "Excuse me a minute, Ranma." Genma walked over to Chef Pierre
and thumped him lightly on the side of the head with the heel of his
hand. 
     "Ah, that's better," Chef Pierre said. "I was beginning to lapse
into a silly accent. It is just, you do not taste the soup stock 
before I am completely satisfied with it."
     "You threw a knife at me!" Ranma shouted.
     "I threw it at the wall next to you," Pierre snapped. "If I had
hit you, I would have gotten your blood in my soup."


Chapter Three


Deep Character Development Time:

Chef Luigi --   Chef Luigi was born in Venice, Italy in the two-room
apartment of his poor parents, Chef Angelo and Chef Angela. Though
he was too young to remember, he imagines remembering the rough hands
of the midwife, Paola Antonina the Elder, drawing him from the womb.
He imagines remembering the coarse caress of the towel with which
she wiped the blood from his downy infant skin. He remembers how the
umbilical cord that bound him to his mother's interior was preserved
in pickling fluid, and how on moonlit nights, as he lay in his crib,
he looked up at that gleaming strand on the mantelpiece and felt for
sure that he would someday make one of those for his own. When he was
six, Paola Antonina the Younger, who cared for him while his parents
were at work in the inferior restaurants that were the only ones who
would employ them, explained to him that he could never make one of 
those, because only women made them when they had babies. "Then,"
he said impulsively to himself, "I'll make something else just like
it." So he became a pasta chef. Umbilicus after umbilicus he squeezed
from the vesicular tubing of his spaghetti maker; umbilicus after
umbilicus he cast across the smooth wooden bars of his pasta dryer.
By the time he was nine he could tie his own farfalle and twist his
own gemelli. By the time he was thirteen, Paola Antonina the Youngest
was his constant companion. "Ooooh," said she. "You taste just like
spaghetti down there." They rode together on motorboats and gondolas
along the canals; he fed her fettucine with delicate white sauce,
and a steady diet of other things besides. Then one morning, when he
was seventeen, he arose from his bed, leaving her sleeping, and crept
out to the kitchen to begin stuffing chilled clam filling into the 
evening's dinner ravioli, when he beheld a sight that was pure 
nightmare:  the jar containing the pickled umbilical cord was gone!
     When the new maid, Vittoria Paolezza, arrived in the morning,
he leapt at her throat. Only the steadying hand of Paola Antonina
the Youngest kept him from committing murder that day.
     "What's-a the big deal-a?" said Vittoria Paolezza, lighting
a cigarette, tapping the ash into the nearby bowl of clam stuffing.
"I throw it away-a de-a garbage-a."
     "Why are you talking so strangely, you stupid hag?" shouted
Chef Luigi.
     "I'm-a sorry, I have-a the cold," answered the maid.
     At age twenty, Chef Luigi married Paola Antonina the Youngest,
only to have her run away from home two days later to take up 
residence with her secret lover, a middle manager at an olive oil 
company. A month later, she gave birth to Chef Luigi's son, Octavio.
Chef Luigi was unable to obtain the umbilical cord. Octavio and his
mother moved to the isle of Crete. Attempting to comfort their son,
Chef Angelo and Chef Angela both fell dead of food poisoning at a 
Belgian restaurant in Sorrento.
     It was the latest in many blows to Chef Luigi's confidence.
     "I want to go back to the womb," said Chef Luigi.
     This did not prove possible, so he continued to make pasta.

Chef Pierre:

     Chef Pierre's mother was eaten by a bear.
     "My mother is a fish," he said.
     No one believed him.
     Chef Pierre has three sons who all think "Jurassic Park" is a 
real place. The oldest, Damian, 24, keeps wondering who did the 
animal training for the dinosaurs in the movie.
     It is hard to be Chef Pierre.
     Chef Pierre had no girlfriend until he was 21, because his acne
was very severe. At 21, he got a job roasting sheep at Café Dantesque
in downtown Cannes. He used the money to pay a dermatologist.
Two years later, he married his first wife, Genevieve, a hairspray
tester. Damian was born a month later. While Pierre struggled
to open his own restaurant, Genevieve took a vacation diving near the
ruins of the Titanic, and caught her wetsuit on the projecting,
coral-encrusted edge of an open porthole, and drowned. Two months
later, to relieve his grief, Chef Pierre married Marie, a girl from
the Pyrenees. He felt more sure about Marie than he had about his 
mother.
     "Marie really is a fish," he said.
     Chef Pierre's restaurant, Le Boeuf, was a success, but he became
physically weary, and soon handed over management to a lieutenant,
cooking there only one night a week in order to spend more time with
Marie and his second son, Antoine. Antoine was the sort of child who
would go to school every day in Mickey Mouse ears if allowed to do 
so. Soon this wore out Marie, who developed a heart murmur. She moved
to Algiers, divorced Pierre, and married a middle manager at an 
Algerian wine company, whose slogan was written by Brendan Behan:
     "Come one, come all, American swine, and drink of our Algerian
wine. 'Twill turn your eyelids black and blue, and damn well good 
enough for you."
     Chef Pierre entered the darkest time of his life. He sold Le 
Boeuf and opened another restaurant the name of which I can't 
translate into French. There he met a cocktail waitress, a Russian
émigré named Vanna, who seduced him. He realized she was a dishonest
person when she showed him what she said was Thurman Thomas' 
Superbowl Ring, that he had given her as a gift after a one-night
passionate encounter.
     "Nonsense," said Chef Pierre. "Thurman Thomas would not cheat
on his wife."
     The ring said "Le Ring d' Superbowl" on the front.
     Chef Pierre married Vanna.
     He was sure this time; he was specific.
     "Vanna is a flounder," he said.
     They had a son. The son looked more like Thurman Thomas than 
like Pierre. They named the son Alexandre.
     Chef Pierre divorced Vanna. A year later, she married Damian,
who became his brother's father, while Pierre became Alexandre's
father and grandfather, assuming Alexandre was of his blood; if not,
Pierre was only Alexandre's grandfather. It took several years to 
sort out these family relationships.
     It is hard to be Chef Pierre.
     Chef Pierre is a testy person.
     But he is one of the greatest chefs in Europe.
     "All fish are my mother," he says.
     This time he's got it right.


Chapter Five No, Excuse me.

Chapter Four

     Akane sat in her room making no progress on her chemistry
homework. In a chair at her desk, she lazily kicked out with one 
foot, brushing a collection of mallets she used as footrests.
     "I wonder where I got all those things," she said to herself.
     She had passed another unconscious chef in the hallway: a man in
his sixties, white-haired, balding, wearing, besides the usual hat,
an apron stained with flour. Flour was also on his hand and even his
flat, time-worn face. These people were really getting on her nerves.
But everything was getting on her nerves today. Kasumi's cooking
had enough fiber in it, so why . . .  no, there was no point in 
wondering about that. She turned back to her homework.
     "Now, how many moles of carbon are in..." she said to herself,
when  there was a dramatic creaking noise from overhead. In one 
smooth motion, she turned, rose, threw the chair back, and looked
up.
     There, arrayed on the ceiling in a green leotard and a chef's
hat, was the Black Rose, Kodachi Kuno.
     "What?" Akane shouted. "What now?! What?! What?!"
     "Oh, nothing, dear girl," Kodachi said, dropping down. "I was in
the neighborhood, so I thought I'd drop in and spy on . . . er, visit
my darling Ranma. But I couldn't resist seeing you struggle with your
silly homework. Are you as good at chemistry as you are at cooking,
_hm?_"
     "What are you talking about? Why don't you get out of here?"
Akane measured her distance to Kodachi; but Kodachi was fast, and the
room was too small for a flying kick. There were all those mallets
under the desk, left over from Kodachi's previous visits, she now 
remembered, but, though she was strong enough to use them, they were
poorly balanced weapons, ridiculously point-heavy with the short 
hafts,  not anything a martial artist would use, other than for 
comedic effect.
     "Oh, I'll go," Kodachi said. "After all, I have to get ready
for the cooking contest."
     Don't ask, Akane told herself. Don't ask. She continued 
measuring for a kick; maybe there was enough space after all. A 
violent urge to ask built up within her. Don't ask, she told herself.
     "What contest, you ask?" Kodachi fluted. "Why, my battle against
Ranma, of course. My charming father has arranged it, for what 
purpose I cannot tell, but _I_ shall turn it to _my_ purposes."
She then began her insane laugh, spun a ribbon, and scattered
black rose petals throughout the room. Akane finally launched her 
kick, but her foot got tangled in the ribbon, and she fell to the 
floor, rolling and chopping through the ribbon with her other foot,
coming up again in fighting stance.
     "Oh, dear, so you want to fight, do you?" Kodachi grinned.
"Why, that's _exactly_ what I had in mind. Why don't _you_ 
participate in our little contest too? Unless you're afraid, of 
course!"
     "I'm not afraid of you!" Shouting this, Akane realized her 
temper was getting the better of her. _Everyone_ was afraid of 
Kodachi. Kodachi was insane.
     "And the prize can be Ranma," Kodachi added. She spun her 
ribbon, scattering more rose petals. Shakuhachi music played in the
background. She laughed and sprang toward Akane's window. "Ta taaa!"
     Akane's window was shut.
     The shakuhachi music stopped. Kodachi slid down onto the floor,
sat up blinking, and rubbed her head. "My, that was somewhat painful.
I must remember to check my exits. How bizarre, that a mere window
should prove an obstacle for one with my talents. But I shall not be
daunted. For am I not the Black  . . ."
     Her last words were lost as Akane booted her out of the now-open
window. "I'll beat you at your stupid contest, and I don't care what
the prize is!"
     There was a small puff of dust in the distance.


Chapter Five

     It soon became obvious that the three great chefs did not like
each other, and sharing the truck Kirin had rented for them did not
improve the situation. When all three were assembled in one room 
awake, there was a tremendous sniffing and humphing and rapid 
turning-aside of heads with noses turned up. They spoke to each other
in veiled insults if at all. They did, however, eat each other's
food. That night's dinner consisted of Chef Pierre's soup, Chef 
Luigi's spaghetti marinara, and Chef Gottfried's - well, Ranma 
thought, his whatever-you-call-that-flaky-junk.
The presence of the three Chefs at the table slowed down the 
conversation somewhat, partly because of all the noisy and 
enthusiastic eating, and partly because Soun kept bursting into tears
of joy at the prospect of Akane cooking this well.
     "So how is it you guys all speak Japanese so well?" Ranma asked
the three chefs.
     "I spent three years studying at the Culinary Academy in Kyoto,"
said Chef Pierre.
     "Funny how I never heard of that place," Nabiki said. "Must be a
plot device."
     "As a youth, I was obsessed with a desire to translate the _Tale
of Genji_ into Italian," Chef Luigi said.
     "As a college student, I was in love with a Japanese girl, the
daughter of a journalist working in my native Vienna," said Chef 
Gottfried. "However, we were unable to marry because of her parents'
objection. Until now, I had forgotten about her. I believe I shall
forget her again, as will the readers, until she appears late in the
story and, in our old age, we finally find peace and contentment
in each other's withered arms."
     "Humph," said Chef Pierre. "Peace and contentment indeed. Bah."
     "Humph," said Chef Gottfried. "Bouillabaisse without mushrooms."
     "Pass the spaghetti," said Ranma. "And that pot of whatever
that is."
     Akane  wasn't eating as much as usual, and was giving angry 
glares to everyone. Ranma noticed this, but his jaw was still 
smarting from several blows he had received earlier, so he thought
it was better not to ask what tonight's problem was. Maybe it was 
only what it seemed to be:  he had read the message from Kirin, and
it didn't surprise him that Akane might get a little cranky after
a reminder of how bad her cooking was. But she seemed worried,
too.
     "Isn't this food delightful, Akane?" Soun asked her.
     "It's great, Dad."
     "I think this is the most delicious Western food I've ever 
eaten."
     "Sure, Dad."
     "What an honor it is to have such great chefs in our home."
     "OK, Dad, it tastes good, OK? Leave me alone already!"
     Soun began to sniffle. "She . . . she yelled at me. What did I 
do to deserve that?"
     "There, there, Tendo," Genma said, spaghetti dribbling down his
chin. "This is an emotional time for all of us."
     After dinner Akane went outside and began breaking boards.
Hoping to get away from the great chefs, Ranma went outside to watch.
He didn't say anything, but Akane glared at him. "Leave me alone,
Ranma. I'm trying to practice!"
     "All right, Akane, tell you what. I'll leave you alone after
you tell me what's really bothering you. If you don't tell me now,
don't get mad at me later for not knowing about it. Okay?"
     "This stupid cooking contest," Akane said. "Hiii-YAH!"
Shards of wood went flying.
     "Between me and Kuno?"
     "Between me and _Kodachi_ Kuno!"
     "You and Kodachi? What the heck is that about?"
     "Ranma, you idiot! Principal Kuno didn't pick Tatewaki for the
contest. He picked Kodachi!"
     "But all her food is poisoned!"
     Akane explained to Ranma what had happened in Chapter Four.
     "Boy, she sure suckered you in there, didn't she, Akane?"
     "Well, maybe I should lose and let her have you, just so you'll
stop _bothering_ me while I'm _practicing!_"
     Ranma dodged a punch that would have sent him on an unwanted
trajectory. "Whatever. I'm out of here."
     Before he could leap away, both fathers appeared on the porch.
Soun said, "Akane, Ranma. We've made a decision. Tell them, Saotome."
     "We're calling you both in sick tomorrow," Genma said. "You're
going to skip school. Right, Tendo?"
     "That's right, Saotome. We want the two of you to spend the 
whole day taking lessons in the kitchen."
     Ranma and Akane each shouted their own familiar forms of 
refusal.
     "No," said Soun. "Our minds are made up."
     "Don't worry about it, Sis," Nabiki called from her window.
"I upped our homeowner's insurance. I'm even using Dr. Tofu's agent."
     Chef Gottfried appeared behind the fathers. "The first lesson,"
he announced, "is to clean up after you eat. You will please come in
here to receive this lesson."
     Left alone on the porch with his friend, Soun lit a cigarette
and smiled. "You know, Saotome, we have full bellies and bright 
prospects."
     "That's right, Tendo. And so far in this story, there hasn't
been a single joke at our expense. Life is good."
     In the background, there was a shrill cry of, "What do you mean
I didn't stack the bowls right? Just who do you think you are?"
     "Yes, Saotome. Life is good."


Chapter  Six

"I feel better than James  Brown. I feel better now."  --  James Was?


Dear Diary:

What a simply wonderful day! I did receive a few minor bruises,
but they have quickly healed, and imagine the prize:  a  chance to 
win my darling Ranma away from that crapulous wench Akane Tendo!
Oh, my heart is pulsing with fulsome joy! Father came into to see me
today. It was the first time he has been to see me in years.  He did
peer at me for a while, and raise his glasses to stare with eyes that
I must acknowledge to be just the slightest bit beady, unlike my own
wide and ocean-deep orbs of course.  But in the end he said, "You 
must be my daughter Kodachi. Look how beautiful you are."
     Well, actually, diary, he said,  "You must be my daughter
Kodachi because you're the only girl in the house." And actually
instead of girl he said  "waihine." And he didn't really say my name
because he didn't know it. But it's close enough. I will take my 
compliments wherever I can get them.
     Then Father told me he needed me to defend the family honor in a
cooking contest against Ranma. Oh, the joy! To be in a room with 
Ranma for so long without his being able to play coy and run away,
the poor shy little boy. He won't be able to contain his feelings
for me once I've shown him everything I've learned in home economics
class! St. Hebereke may not have boys, but we surely do have good 
home ec classes!
     As soon as Father left I began to have the most deliciously
evil thoughts! What if I could not only defend the family honor by 
defeating Ranma, and thereby give Father cause to recognize me when
he sees me in the future, and if I could not only display to Ranma
what a wonderful cook I am while overcoming  his natural bashfulness,
but . . .  what was I saying? Oh, yes. What if I could defend the  
family honor, attract father's attention, show my cooking to Ranma,
and vanquish that manic-depressive squirt Akane Tendo all at the same
time! O rapturous day! O triumph of triumphs! Glory of glories!
I could sing just to think of it! I think I will!
 Oh, dear, I don't know any songs. Not that it matters. La la la la 
la la! Ha ha! I could laugh! I know there are those who say I am 
insane.  But they don't realize it's a cleverly concealed act! 
Because I'm insane, my adversaries never expect me to understand
them, so they don't bother to conceal their weak spots. Ha ha ha!  
And I keep them all frightened of me! Ha ha ha! Brother dear may love
_Romeo and Juliet_, but I love _Hamlet._ Ha ha! I am but mad 
north-northwest.  When . . .  how does it go? Oh, yes. I know a hawk
from a handsaw. Ha ha ha!  I am so delightfully evil!  But if I know
I am evil, am I truly insane? Or does knowledge of evil, and the 
deliberate choice of evil, imply a kind of super-sanity? Yes, that's
it. I'm not insane! I'm so sane that compared to me, everyone else
is insane! They've gone on two trips and been stranded on two desert
islands, and they didn't take me either time. How silly of them! Oh,
Diary, dear, I'm sure I don't know what to say. I have this most 
delicious sensation of pure wickedness bubbling up from the pit of my
stomach! It's like disgorging a double fudge sundae! Oh, if only I 
had a sparring partner! I suppose I'll have to beat up the ninjas
again tonight! Ha ha ha! Seriously, diary, I will have to think of 
something entirely new to try during this contest. Something that 
will throw the poor fools totally off-balance. O, my body is aquiver
with longing to be enfolded in Ranma's arms! I shall feast my eyes
upon his eyes and feast the rest of me upon the rest of him!  O! How
I shall stuff him with my magnificent cooking till he is too sluggish
to resist my prostration atop his manly frame!  I shall be ready 
soon. My clever plots are creeping across my forehead like Soviet
spies. Ha ha ha! I shall ask the woman in the wallpaper! What do you
say, woman? She is mute. How unfortunate. Yellow wallpaper doesn't
go well with black roses. I must remember to have the ninjas tear it
out. Ha ha, I fooled you, diary. I know there's no woman in the 
wallpaper. I was only joking, diary dearest. Everyone expects me to 
talk that way, but we know better, don't we, diary? Whoops! Look at 
the clock! It's time for my pills. Let's see. Vitamin supplement
with iron; extra vitamin  C, extra vitamin B. Extra vitamin E for my
complexion. Ginseng gel caplet for tea.  What is this one the ninjas
gave me today? Lithium - is that an essential mineral? It isn't in my
regular supplement. I think I'll skip it. Oh, and of course, my 
hormone pill. What a glorious day! Life is sweet!




Chapter Seven


     Kasumi came home that evening to find the large truck still 
parked in front. She entered the house. Her kitchen was absolutely
spotless, although there were a few dishes missing from her cabinet
that she found the broken pieces of in the  garbage bin outside
the next morning. Dr. Tofu had spent a good part of their evening
together exploring books he hoped would tell him how to hit Rumiko
Takahashi's pressure points the right way to get her to write him 
back into the manga. Kasumi had had a good time, but she was tired.
As she padded through the hall, she heard a chorus of snores. 
Genma-Panda's roaring, Ranma's whistling breaths; a light hiss from
Nabiki; silence from Akane's room; where was that cacophony coming
from? Oh, yes, the Great Chefs were on sleeping mats in the living
room downstairs.
     
     Kasumi woke while the moon was high.  She thought she heard 
Ranma's voice. He sounded very awake. She rubbed sleep from her eyes,
raised her head a little, better to listen.
     "No way! No way, you gaijin freak! I need my rest after getting
smacked around by Akane all day yesterday!"
     "You lazy lout! A good chef always rises early to .  .  ."
     (SMACK!     THUMP! dragdragdrag.    SLAM!) 
     Kasumi rested her head on the pillow again. How wonderful
that the Great  Chefs fit so well into the family routines.
     There was no sound from the unconscious Great Chef in the 
hallway. A few moments later, there was a shrill shriek from Akane's
room.
     "Get out of my room, you gaijin pervert!"
     (BONK! BIFF! UPPERCUT! CRASH tinkle, tinkle fallfall THUMP!)
     "It certainly is unusual to have guests who aren't martial
artists," Kasumi said quietly. When there was no sound from the 
unconscious Great Chef on the grass outside, Kasumi went back to 
sleep.
     WHANG WHANG WHANG WHANG WHANG! 
     Someone was banging with a metal spoon on a frying pan as he 
walked down the hallway.  "Get up! It is time for chef lessons!"
     In her bedroom, Akane was just beginning to relax when she heard
the banging sound. "Oh, all right," she muttered to herself, and 
dragged her eyes open, but didn't begin to slide out of bed yet, when
another door popped open and she heard the muffled sounds of combat.
     "Oh my." SPLANG!  (Frying pan over head.) "Don't you realize
tomorrow's a school day?" WH-ZANG! "Spoons are for mouths, aren't
they?" SPR-KLUG! "We do have neighbors to consider, you know." 
SPLUTCH!  (Low blow, Akane thought.) "Oh dear! Be careful of the 
stairs." RUMP-BUMP-TUMP-WUMP, THUMP!
     
     Meanwhile, somewhere else entirely,  Happosai was buried in a 
pile of lacy underwear.

     Kasumi rose at her usual time-just before dawn. She stepped
over Chef Gottfried in the hall, nudged Chef Pierre out of the way at
the foot of the stairs, and went out to the garden to drag Chef Luigi
indoors so he wouldn't get burned when the sun came up. Then she 
cooked breakfast.
     "These chefs are really lazy," Nabiki said at breakfast.
"I can't believe they're sleeping so late."
     "Well, time for school!" Ranma said, jumping up.  "Oh boy, I 
can't wait to . . ."
     "Stay right there, boy," Genma said.
     "Akane," Soun said, "remember you aren't going either. As soon
as the Great Chefs finish getting their rest, your cooking lessons
will begin."
     After helping to clean up, Ranma and Akane went into the dojo
to spar.
     "Akane," Ranma said as he dodged her attacks, "I gotta find some
way to get out of here. Tell you what. Why don't you  sneak down the
street to the pay phone and  call pretending to be Miss Hinako and 
say I have to come in or else I'll miss three tests or something."
     "Then what?"  Akane growled.
     "Then I'll get out of here."
     "You mean you won't call to get me out of here too?"
     "Huh? Of course not. We all know _you_ need the cooking 
lessons."
     Akane's next blow connected.

     During the Furinkan lunch hour, there was a loud banging at the
front door.  Kasumi opened it to find Tatewaki Kuno outside.
     "Good afternoon, Kasumi Tendo. I have heard that the fair Akane
Tendo is ill," he said, resting his bokken backwards on his shoulder,
"and I have come to comfort her."
     Kasumi shook her head, but let him in.
     "I have also heard that Ranma Saotome is ill, and I have come
to vaunt over him," Kuno added.
     "Well, it's true Ranma isn't feeling well," Kasumi said. "But
he isn't  sick exactly."
     Ranma was in the hallway outside the kitchen, face-first
in the wall.
     "What ails thee,  Saotome?" Kuno said, leaning slightly toward
him with a proud and curious expression.
     "Go into the kitchen and find out,"  Ranma said. His voice was
muffled by his lips' proximity to the wall. "I could have gotten
down hours ago, but I like this better than what's going on in 
there."
     Kuno thrust open the door. Behind him, Kasumi craned her neck
to see over his shoulder.
     The upper part of the kitchen was stained with choking smoke.
A blackened lump of something that used to be meat sat  in a rancid
pan on the table. Two more such lumps protruded from the overstuffed
trash bin.  Chef Pierre was sitting on the floor, his face covered
with grease and bruises, his face either calm or shell-shocked
as he rubbed burn salve into a lurid red patch on the skin of his 
arm. The floor was littered with bones, onion skins, splinters
of chopped cutting board, and one of Kasumi's good baking pans, which
had a dent in it shaped like the back of Ranma's head. Akane was 
leaning against the wall, breathing heavily. A charcoal odor and 
black smoke came from the oven, which was open, its door hanging
loosely from the bottom hinge.
     "She cannot make lamb," Chef Pierre said. "She will bake it 
until it is a full-grown sheep. With her there is no delicate touch.
Everything must be fast and strong. By God!  To put her in a kitchen,
it is like a rhinoceros in a glass house."
     Kuno rushed at him with his bokken, shouting, "How dare you so 
insult the high-spirited Akane Tendo, you..." but before he could deal
a tooth-rattling blow, Chef Pierre lowered his head to the ground
in submission. Whether in submission to Kuno, or to Akane's cooking,
was not clear.
     "It does not matter, Akane Tendo," Kuno said comfortingly,
again resting his bokken on his shoulder. "When we are married,
I shall employ a proper Japanese chef to . . ."
     A moment later, Kuno landed in a tree about a block away with
a burned rack of lamb jammed over his face. Punching holes in the 
meat with his fingers so he could see, he climbed out of the tree and
began to work the despoiled meat off his head. "I forgive thee, Akane
Tendo," he said in a tone of golden nobility as he popped the meat
from his head,  "for I know how illness within can spoil outer 
disposition. Yet. . ."
     Another burnt rack of lamb, one with his bokken thrust through
it, came flying through the sky, struck the original lamb, and forced
it back onto his head.  The force of this blow also crumpled him to 
the ground.
     "Such athleticism," he said through the binding meat. 
"Excellently aimed. A magnificent specimen, indeed, is the lovely
Akane."  His afternoon nap then commenced.
     A few moment later,  an even more violent banging brought Kasumi
to the front door once again.
     In the hallway, Ranma was thinking about getting off the wall,
but he decided first to find out who was at the door.
     "Oh, hello, Principal Kuno," Kasumi said. "How nice to see you
again."
     "Delinquents skip school, dey get haircuts for punishments,
hey hey?" Snapping of shears.
     Ranma slid down from the wall and prepared to flee. A hand 
closed around the collar of his shirt.
     "You return to cooking lessons, no?" said Chef Pierre.
     "Hey, hands off!" Ranma started to measure the chef for a 
backhand punch.  But then he thought, "No. That's too predictable."
He followed Chef Pierre back into the kitchen, but kept his senses
taut, awaiting the approach of his principal.
     Chef Pierre set him to stirring the brown contents of  a 
saucepan. After some peremptory instructions, he turned back to 
Akane, who was flailing with a butcher knife at yet another uncooked
rack of lamb.
     A sweatdrop formed on Ranma's head. The padding noise of 
Principal Kuno's feet in the hall had to be coming. It had to be. . .
     "Oh, no you don't!" Genma's voice trumpeted in the hallway.
"There's no way I'm going to allow you to spy on  Ranma's secret
cooking techniques!"
     Another argument between Genma and the big  kahuna followed.
Ranma tuned out all until the following exchange.
     "Big  kahuna cut _your_ hair then!"
     "Ha ha, you fool, you forgot I'm bald, didn't you?"
     "Now, then, gentlemen," came  Soun's voice. "I hate to hear the
sounds of discord in my humble home. What seems to be the trouble?"
     "Ah, this one have long hair. Big kahuna have nice steel 
scissors, also straight-razor extra sharp for sideburns, ha ha!"
     A snapping sound. Soun shouting, "Hey, whoa, come on, now. Don't
do that. Can't we just. . .?" Muted exchange of blows. Loud slamming
sound as Akane planted the butcher knife in the kitchen counter.
She marched out into the hallway.
     "Will you people shut up? I'm trying to _cook_ here!"
     "Imbeciles," said Chef Pierre.
     Four heads were poked through the kitchen door. "Shut up!" they
all shouted.
     Ranma noticed that Soun was now razor-cut on the right side of 
his head.
     All four heads withdrew back into the hall. There was a great
deal of shouting. Ranma didn't listen to most of it, but he couldn't
help catching most of Akane's words.
     "Are you going to let him get _away_ with that,  Dad?"
     A few moments later:  "I can't _believe_ I'm listening to this!"
     Shortly after:  "Yes, she did!" (a pause) "No, I will _not_ let
you cut my hair!"  Then, "Well, if you think I'm doing this for you
_or_ Ranma, you're  crazy!"
     Ranma continued stirring the contents of the pot.  "I'm so glad
I'm not involved," he said.
     Four heads poked through the kitchen door. "You are involved!"
they all shouted, then drew back again.
     "Well," Chef Pierre said, "I am not involved. Now we add the 
chopped mushrooms. Simmer them in the stock until they are brown.
Never add the mushrooms before adding wine."
     For some reason, the din outside was not bothering Ranma. He 
couldn't understand why that was.
     "I can't understand why all the noise outside isn't bothering
me," he said to Chef Pierre.
     "I can explain," Pierre said. "It is because good cooking is 
like, how you say, the peaceful thinking."
     "Meditation?"
     "Yes, exactly. You become focused on the simple motion of 
stirring, or chopping, or brushing, or even measuring. It makes you
calm. I think maybe no one is calm here in this house, is that 
right?"
     "No, Kasumi is  always calm," Ranma said. "And. . ." He felt his
mouth shape into an O of surprise. "And she's the one who does all 
the cooking."
     "Exactly," said Chef Pierre.
     "But why doesn't cooking make Akane calm, then? She always goes
crazy when she cooks."
     "Ah," said Pierre. "For the answer to that question, you will
have to speak to Chef Luigi. I am only a little bit crazy; he is very
crazy. Yes?"
     Outside, the battle raged on.



Chapter Eight

     At dinner that night, half the food was prepared by Ranma, and
half by Akane. Everyone (even Ranma) was wise enough not to comment
on the poor  quality of Akane's results. Ranma's, while not expert,
was tasty enough;  but Akane's rack of lamb was undercooked
in some spots, overcooked in others, was seasoned with soap instead
of wine, and had bits of cutlery baked into it.  It was similar
with the vegetables. To encourage her, Chef Pierre ate a small 
portion of each of Akane's dishes. Although his color briefly 
changed, he did not pass out.
     "Akane's cooking didn't kill him," Ranma thought. "Hey, maybe
she's making progress after all. She's never going to be a match for
Kodachi, though."
     Soun ate without speaking. To cover up the uneven haircut he had
received, he now wore his Santa Claus hat (left over from the Tendo
Family Christmas Scramble).
     As a result of Principal Kuno's pointless aggression against
Soun, the challenge issued by Kodachi to Akane was now part of the 
official arrangements. It was a three-way contest:  Akane 
(representing the Tendos) and Ranma (representing the Saotomes)
versus Kodachi (representing the lunatics).  As yet no judge had been
selected, nor had the location been decided, but the time was set:
the contest would occur in six days.
     "I'll arrange the judge, Daddy," Nabiki said. "Leave everything
to me. Oh,  and charge it to Kirin."
     "That's Daddy's little girl,"  Soun mumbled.
     "This assures me at least one soliloquy later in the story,"
Nabiki said, "plus a chance to dress up in something _totally_
impressive which Kirin will pay for."
     The other two great chefs were not present during the meal; they
had gone off to appear on a local TV interview program to advertise
the cooking game show they were contracted to compete in later.
     Late that night, Akane walked alone out onto the balcony (also
last seen in Tendo Family Christmas Scramble). Her stomach was in 
turmoil from the effects of eating her own food, but at least she 
hadn't out-and-out poisoned anyone, like she usually did. Even Ranma
had taken a few bites.
     She looked at the stars. A soft wind stirred the leaves. Gently,
it began to rain. Akane felt like a little girl again.
     "I love the stars, the autumn leaves, and the rain," Akane 
thought. "When I was a little girl, the stars were so beautiful.
The autumn leaves were so beautiful. I used to jump in the piles of 
them after Dad raked them up. I love it when it rains like this, all
the soft touches on my skin like the fingers of angels."
     She heard a rustling sound behind her and turned. Ranma's shadow
did not fall over her, nor did he, wordless, step out onto the 
balcony beside her, resting a supple yet manly arm across her 
shoulders, nor did he knead her tense shoulders with his strong 
fingers. He was in the room next to his father, snoring torpidly
as he recovered from being hit on the back of the head with a baking
pan earlier in the day.
     The rain stopped. The wind stopped. The leaves ceased to move
across the moonlit yard. A gray cloud obscured the moon and most of 
the stars. A pale blue light was in the sky then.
     "I love that pale blue light," Akane thought. "When that pale
blue light comes into the sky, it makes me think about being a little
girl. It makes me all warm and glowing inside."
     The pale blue light faded from the sky. Off in the distance
was the sound of honking horns. An orange light from inside the house
shone out the first floor windows onto the backyard grass, giving
it a subtle sheen.
     "That light on the grass reminds me of home," Akane said. She 
looked around her. "Oh. I am home. Well, it reminds me of when I was
a little girl. And I . . ."
     There was a noise from the front of the house. Akane turned
slightly, listening.
     "Cretinous dog!"
     "Yammering oaf!"
     "Preposterous, dogmatic, arrogant . . ."
     "Your mother's hips were a horseshoe, you worm!"
     "Your father wore a shoehorn between his legs, you mongrel!"
     "Your brother's mouth is stuck in open circle, you ape! "
     "Your sister drip-drops in a bucket, you festering sore!"
     Rattling of the door handle.
     "Hey. They locked the door! What for did they lock the door?"
     "Not sleeping in the truck for me. Is too much drunkenness."
     "You're  too drunk? You can't hold your liquor, you Venetian
lickspittle!"
     "What? And I suppose you can, you Prussian pigturd!"
     The soft slapping of blows. A light thud, someone slumping
against a wall. A muted but unpleasant sound, dry heaving and 
splattering noises. Then silence.
     Akane turned back, looking at the night sky which showed no 
light, no stars, no wind, and no leaves. There was nothing but a 
memory of the sound of two of the great chefs of Europe throwing
up on the front porch.
     "I love the sound of great chefs throwing up on the front 
porch," Akane tried. "It reminds me of . . .  Oh, forget it!"
               **
     In the morning, Chefs Luigi and Gottfried were slow to arise.
They growled at each other incessantly. Kasumi suggested they go to 
the bath house and talk out their problems. After a long, steaming
bath,  they returned pink and reconciled.
     "Drunkenness makes fools of us both," Chef Gottfried said as the
family ate Kasumi's breakfast. "Sake makes me so very sad, 
remembering my lost love."
     "Drunkenness makes me want to go back to the womb," said Chef
Luigi.
     "Oh, please," Nabiki said. 
     "Well, the kitchen is finally clean," Kasumi said, smiling
beatifically. "As soon as we finish breakfast, it's all ready for 
today's lessons."
     Ranma leapt up. "Yep! Well, got to get to school early! Big test
today, and . . ."
     "Ranma!" Genma snapped. "You're not going to school today."
     "Okay! Great, I can catch up on some training exercises and . . 
."
     "What's the matter, Ranma?" Akane said. "Afraid I'll out-cook
you today?"
     "That's the spirit," Soun said.
     "No way, Akane." Ranma retorted. "I'm not afraid you'll out-cook
me! I'm afraid you'll outlive me if I taste any of your . . . Guh."
Akane's blow found its mark. "How predictable," he muttered as he 
folded onto the floor.
     Outside a wind arose, and the wind-chimes on the back porch 
clinked ominously. There was the shrill sound of shakuhachi music.
The room was inundated with black rose petals.
     "Oh, dear," Kasumi said, "they're getting into the food."
     Kodachi's absurd laugh was heard outside. "Hahahahahahaha,
hohohohohoho, heeheeheeheehee! You're doomed to be humiliated,
Akane Tendo! Soon my superior cooking skills will vanquish your 
putrid concoctions, and darling Ranma will be mine! You will never
defeat me, since I am the one they call the Black Rose, the brightest
young flower of martial arts rhythmic gymnastics and home economics!
Hahahahahahaha, hohohohohohoho, heeheeheeheee . . . Gak!"
     The impact upon her face of a large metal pot lid from the 
breakfast table had cut short the monologue. Akane stood on the 
porch, throwing-arm raised triumphantly, eyes shut with a mixture
of irritation and satisfaction. Like a rotten willow hacked down by 
the groundskeeper's axe, Kodachi  plunged from the tree limb where
she was perched. Her ribbon full of rose petals fluttered to the 
ground; the pot lid landed more solidly.
     "Oh, dear," she said, sitting up, waving away the small birds
that were singing around her head. "What a craven blow, albeit a 
somewhat accurate one, using a lamentably improvised weapon.. How 
fortunate for you that I'm saving my best attacks for the actual
contest." She sprang to her feet. "Akane Tendo, prepared to be 
humiliated beyond measure in  a public forum. Au revoir!" She leapt
into the tree. "Goodbye, Ranma darling!"
     "Good riddance," Ranma said from the floor as Kodachi bounced
away across the rooftops.  "Hey, you know, Akane, maybe the cooking
practice is helping you!"
     "You think so," Akane said suspiciously.
     "Sure. Your pot-lid throwing is a lot more accurate since you 
practiced throwing them at me all day yesterday."
     Akane stalked off. "Well, thanks for all your support, you 
jerk."
     "What do you mean? I praised your throwing, didn't I?"
     "Shut up, Ranma!"
     The rest of this argument need not be repeated here. It was like
all the others you've read, except less conclusive. It ended when 
Chef Luigi thrust his soft frame between the combatants.
     "It's time for pasta lessons," he said. "Lesson number one. 
Clean up the table."
     About an hour later, Soun and Genma were sitting on the porch
playing shogi.
     "She _was_ accurate with that pot lid, wasn't she, Saotome?"
     "Mmm-hmm."
     "That's daddy's little girl."



Chapter Nine


     "For the tooth," said Chef Luigi. "In Italian it is, 'al dente.'
It is that perfect moment when  pasta is just right to chew. For me,
al dente is a spiritual thing. I have a pot boiling, and I simply
know. You must develop the instinct for that. You must be spiritually
attuned to your pasta."
     "Gimme a . . ." Ranma started to say. He shut himself up. Chef
Pierre had told him yesterday that good cooking  was like meditation.
Maybe Chef Luigi had something useful to say after all.
     "We don't have to do Buddhist chants or anything, do we?" Akane
asked.
     "No, no," Luigi said. "If that suits you, do it, is good anyway.
But I have  only song I do in my head, I call 'pasta song.' Is in 
Italian, but I try to translate into Japanese haiku." He stood a 
moment, rubbing his brow. "Is hard, still head hurts from drinking
sake.

           "Bubbling pot, new steam
             Red, tender hands touch pasta
             As winter sun burns.

     Hee, hee, what do you think, eh?"
     "Okay," Akane said, and repeated it. Ranma noticed the wrinkles
of thought on her forehead. She was trying extra-hard to commit it to
memory.
     "That really helps?" Ranma asked.
     "Puts me in the mood," said Chef Luigi. "First step, how to boil
water."
     "I can do that," Akane said. It was the first page in her 
mother's recipe book.
     The lesson proceeded for some hours. There was a different
way to boil water for pasta - a different adjustment of temperatures,
a different speed of boiling desired. Chef Luigi had a bag full of 
different types of pasta of  different sizes and consistencies.
They spent all day, up until lunch time, practicing. There were no 
explosions, no boiling water was hurled. Akane did knock a pot of 
boiling water off the stove, but Ranma happened to have a pot holder
in his hand, so he caught it without burning himself.
     While the pasta was boiling, Chef Luigi himself cooked up three
different sauces and a huge bowl of salad, and another western-style
lunch was served.  As Akane carried the salad bowl out, she found
Genma still seated at the table where he had been at breakfast.
     "You haven't moved all day?"
     "A man doesn't want to wake up from a good dream," he said.
     "I've never eaten real Italian cooking for lunch before,"
Kasumi said. "It smells wonderful. Maybe I should be taking cooking
lessons from the great chefs, too. Not cooking three meals a day 
feels like cheating in school."
     Akane noticed Kasumi's hair was maybe not so perfect today as 
usual, but she couldn't concentrate on figuring out why; linguini
_she_ had boiled was going to be on the table. 
     There was a knock on the door. Kasumi started to go answer it,
but her father's voice was heard in the hall.
     "Hello? No, he lives with me. Yes, yes, I'll sign for it."
     Soun padded into the dining room holding a large wrapped box.
"Special delivery for you, Saotome," he said as Ranma and Chef Luigi
carried out more food for the table.
     "Hm," Genma said, "No return address. I wonder what. . .?"  He 
smiled, set the package on his lap, and tore off the wrapping.
Slowly he lifted the lid. "Smells like a fresh sea breeze and 
tropical fruit," he said. "I wonder if . . ."
     There was a loud pop and a spurting sound. Pineapple juice flew
in all directions. Ranma managed to scoot out of the room. Genma,
however, was drenched.
     "Rrr," said Genma-panda. He held up a sign that read, "Of course
you know, this means war."
     A loud crashing sound as Kasumi's best large ceramic bowl fell
and shattered, spewing spaghetti all over the previously clean floor.
Chef Luigi said something in Italian that sounded like cursing as he
stared at the panda.
     Nabiki stepped into the room, holding up an open notebook
as she checked her watch. "Let's see," she said. "That's seventy-two
hours, fourteen minutes, eleven seconds. That's Daisuke's time block,
but . . . good, he bet it was Ranma who would change first, so he 
only gets half the pot. Headed back to school, see you guys."
     While Genma, having wolfed down his lunch, took a hot bath to 
change back and wash off the pineapple juice, explanations
were given to those who needed them. After a while, the lunch was 
finished, and all the great chefs knew about both Saotomes' curses.
Well, almost.
     "So you change into a wild horse?" Chef Pierre asked Ranma.
     "Forget it!"
     Genma came back to the dining room dressed in a fresh gi. "If 
Principal Kuno wants to play childish practical jokes on me, he'll
have to pay for it," he said sternly. "Anything Goes Indiscriminate
Grappling has its own special attacks for that sort of thing. Hold
the fort, Ranma m'boy." Walking slowly and proudly, he headed out the
front door.
     "This I gotta see," Ranma said. "See you later, Chef Luigi."
     "Wait, Ranma, I'll . . ." Akane said, but he was already out the
door.  "Oh, forget it. Those two will never grow up. I'll help clean
up, Chef Luigi."
     Genma sent  Principal Kuno a basket of fruit laced with a 
substance that would turn his urine blue. Principal Kuno sent Genma
a ukulele filled with itching powder. Genma covered the floor outside
Principal Kuno's office with rotten banana peels. Principal Kuno 
ambushed Genma in Furinkan's parking lot and pelted him with leis 
dripping with skunk oil. So it continued throughout the day. Both men
looked deadly serious, and were red-faced with anger, but no blows
were exchanged. It was almost like a ritual; neither man really tried
to avoid the other's tricks. Watching this from concealment,
Ranma was aware that he was missing hours and hours of cooking 
lessons, and he felt more guilty about it than he had expected
to. He had already forgotten the words to the pasta haiku, and the 
stuff about cooking being like meditation was kind of interesting,
whereas the  practical joke war was just pathetic.
     He was concealed in a tree, thinking about this, when he saw 
Tatewaki Kuno approaching the tree, looking directly at him.
     "Spying, Saotome? How unworthy of you."
     Ranma dropped down out of the tree. "You know what our fathers
are doing, don't you?"
     "Aye, and I relish it," Tatewaki said. "Never do I feel so 
secure as when my father's attention is elsewhere. To go an entire
day without being called 'Tachi' is as close to paradise as any day
can be in which I embrace neither Akane Tendo nor my beloved 
pig-tailed goddess. Ah, never mind it. I have words for you, 
Saotome."
     "All right, spit them out,  but don't take all day."
     "Lout! You so scorn my public challenge?"
     "Public? There's no one here but the two of us!"
     Tatewaki gestured at a nearby bush, where Hikaru Gosunkugi
was crouched with a video camera, and at another, where lurked 
Furinkan High's chemistry club with a box marked "explosives
and sleeping gas for use on Ranma," and at a nearby tree, from which
protruded the face of Tsubasa Kuranai, with a sign around his neck
reading, "Maybe Ukyo will show up."
      "My words are these, Saotome. Though I will not support the 
dishonorable methods my twisted sister will use to defeat you,  nor
do I object to observing my father's schemes overcome, even at your
scurrilous hands, still I must do what I can to promote your defeat,
Saotome. This defeat will unite you with Kodachi and thus free the 
beauteous and high-spirited Akane Tendo to date with me. Therefore
I shall strike against  you openly during this cooking contest.
I am not unacquainted with the subtleties of modern television."
     Ranma was already tuning him out - a daily declaration
of Tatewaki's hostile intent was about as inevitable as homework
- when the last few words caught his attention.
     "Television? What television?"
     "Have you not been informed?" Tatewaki said. "Ah, Saotome,
your habitual ignorance and expressions of helpless puzzlement
drastically amuse me. The competition will be held on the next 
installment of Yen Can Cook, the same culinary game show upon which
the three gaijin chefs in your home are scheduled to appear. It is a 
special challenge match. Nabiki Tendo has arranged this. If only I 
could learn the name of the judge, I would act openly to sway the 
judge in Kodachi's favor. Farewell, Saotome. Prepare to fall into 
ignominious defeat, and to see the exquisite Akane Tendo practicing
on my palatial estate."
     "A TV game show," Ranma said as Tatewaki passed out of earshot.
"I'm going to get Nabiki for this."


Chapter Ten

     Akane tossed the pot of white sauce across the room.  At the 
impact, the sauce splattered all over the floor. A sulfurous odor 
came from it, which changed into an acidic one.
     "Well, how am I supposed to know the difference between yeast
and brown sugar?" she screeched at Chef Luigi.
     "You're not. . ." Chef Luigi began.
     "You're right, I'm not, so why do you keep picking on me? Maybe
it isn't my fault I didn't get it right!"
     "You're not . . . " Chef Luigi tried again.
     "Maybe it's your fault this time! How about that?"
     "You're not supposed to put yeast OR brown sugar in white 
sauce," said Chef Luigi. "I try to say this, and always with you 
answer is to go crazy. Why you always go crazy?"
     Akane had been stomping the pot into the floor. She stopped,
one foot slightly raised, and looked at him. 'What do you mean I'm 
crazy?" she shouted. Then she fell silent. "Crazy? Do you really
mean that?"
     The kitchen door popped open. The heads of several supporting
characters appeared. They all shouted, "Yes!"   The door shut again.
Akane lowered her foot gently to the floor, nudging the flattened
pot a little with her toe.
     "First time I see you," said Chef Luigi, "I try to offer you 
special pasta and red sauce I cook for your welcome-home,
and you kick it into my face. Good thing I am drink a little that 
day, or she hurt too much, you know? This kicking, is just crazy."
     "I thought you were attacking me."
     "With a bowl of pasta? Is crazy. I know crazy. They say always,
I am crazy. Maybe is true. But in kitchen, Chef Luigi, he is not 
crazy. You know why? Chef Luigi make crazy go out of him and into 
food. Not  crazy bad, you understand. Crazy good. You listen, I 
tell."
     He went over to stand by the stove, stirring a clam sauce he was
working on as he spoke.
     "When Chef Luigi was a little boy, was school bully, his name
was Gepetto. Before you ask, is no relation."
     "No relation to whom?"
     "Never mind it. You listen. School bully, he come to Luigi,
and he say, give to me all your money. And every day, I give to him
money, and he laugh and push me in mud puddle. Yes?"
     "I hate bullies," Akane said.
     "You are not there to protect me, eh?" said Chef Luigi. "All 
this bullying, it make little Luigi crazy, so he say, today I fight
back. I get a, how you say, a tree branch to hit him with. Gepetto
come up to Luigi and he say, give to me all your money. I say no, and
hit him with tree branch. It no hurt him. He beat me up, very hard,
and push me in mud puddle, and take off my shoes and throw them in 
the canal. There gondolier find them and give them to his little
boy, who Luigi meet later in life, they become friends. I meet him 
in..."
     The kitchen door popped open. Several supporting characters
shouted "Get on with it!" and withdrew.
     "Right. So this what happen. Next day, Luigi is all covered
with bruises, and he say, is no good this way of being crazy, I get
hurt worse like that. So I do something else, also is crazy. I cook
crazy food and give to Gepetto, and then maybe Gepetto change his 
mind about Luigi."
     "So," Akane said, "you cooked him a meal, and the two of you 
were friends after that."
     Luigi shook his head and took the clam sauce off the burner,
scooping it into a dish with his wooden spoon. "No. I pour into food
water that have, how you say, amoebas in it. Gepetto get dysentery,
never come to school again. But this is not the point. Point is, 
there is lots of crazy, but you pick what crazy you use. Is crazy
good, is crazy bad. Now, when Luigi cook, crazy good come out. Crazy
goes into sauce, and you eat it, you come out crazy happy. Now come
to counter, is lesson in chop onion."
     In moments Akane had bits of onion and shards of cutting board
flying in all directions.
     "No, stop!" Chef Luigi cried. "Is crazy bad!"
     Akane lowered the knife. Sweat ran down her brow. "What's crazy
good, then?"
     "Find way to cut onion clever, that no one ever expect," said
Chef Luigi. "Anyone can move knife fast. You find way to move it 
sneaky. Look. Onion is not tasting same all the way through, no? You
no believe, you take bite."
     "No thanks," Akane said, "I believe you."
     "OK, so how cut onion to get best mix of how this part taste,
that part taste?"
     "But when you cook it, all the flavor goes out anyway!"
     "Maybe," said Chef Luigi. "But you cut it right, maybe not. 
Crazy good is sneaky crazy. You try. You learn try hard is not always
try fast, or even try again and again.  Try hard sometimes is not 
work hard on what you do, but is work hard on you who are doing it.
Here. Use the smaller knife." Akane took a moment to contemplate
the small vegetable knife. She imagined for a moment what it would
be like if Chef Luigi had a conversation with Shampoo. She winced,
then looked at the knife, felt it in her hand, then gently touched
it to the surface of a new onion Chef Luigi had placed on a new 
cutting board. Slowly Akane began to press the knife into the flesh
of the onion. . . SLAM! BANG! (The front door.) Ranma shouting,
"Nabiki!!" Akane flung the knife upward, where it stuck in the 
ceiling. "I'll kill him! I swear I'll kill him!" She grabbed an 
already-dented frying pan from a wall rack. "No,  no," said Chef 
Luigi, stepped between her and the door. "No crazy bad. You do crazy
good. He is fool, yes? You fool him." "I've got to hit him! He's 
making all that noise while I'm trying to concentrate!" "No. You fool
him." He held out his fat hand for the frying pan. She put it in his
hand. "Now you be crazy sneaky, instead of crazy with hitting."
She opened the kitchen door and leaned part way into the hall. 
"Ranma!" she called gently. "Nabiki!" Ranma shouted again. He came
to the kitchen. "Yo, Akane. You're not going to believe what Nabiki
did." Akane used her softest voice. "Ranma. I just wanted to tell you
that if you eat the dinner I cook tonight, I'll have something
special for you. Something extra-special." She winked at him, tilted
her head a little, wiggled her finger. "Huh?" Ranma said. "Well,
gee, Akane. If you put it that way. . ." "You want a sample of it 
right now?" Akane said, giving him another smile and come-hither
tilt of her head. "Well. . . I mean . . . are you sure you want to . 
. . I mean, I don't want to force you into anything. I mean, we 
haven't known each other that long, and . . ." "Come and get it, 
Ranma." Ranma stepped toward the kitchen. Quickly Akane snatched
the frying pan from Luigi - surprising the grinning chef - and  bent
it around his head. "This is a sample of the special treatment
you'll get if you keep making noise while I'm in here cooking!"
"Gnp," Ranma said. "Mrd. Frp. Ugh." They would be his last words for
a while. "Crazy good?" Akane asked, nudging  Ranma's unconscious
form out of the doorway with her foot and shutting the door again.
"Still crazy bad. I want you trick him only, not you trick him and 
then hit him. But maybe is better than before." Akane smiled her most
angelic smile. "I'm getting better," she said. "I really am."
 


Chapter Eleven

Deep Character Development Time:

Chef Gottfried:

Growing up in Wien, home of the Waltz King, Chef Gottfried hated the
music of Johann Strauss, Jr. His father and mother used to take him
to open-air concerts, and every time the orchestra struck up "Blue
Danube Waltz" or "Tales of the Wien Woods," or even a harmless
little ditty like "Tritsch-Tratsch Polka," and the audience were 
swaying in their seats or humming, Gottfried would grind his teeth.
He hated Strauss, and eventually he realized it wasn't only Strauss.
He hated all music. It was thus that he developed the first symptoms
of a hatred for all mankind. Everywhere he went, the fools had their
eyes closed, or their lips flickering as they sang along. To him, 
music was no better than the barking of dogs, or at its best, the 
songs of evening-birds whose chirruping kept him from sleep.
     Young Gottfried went on about this hatred of all mankind,
until he discovered crullers. The flaky crullers which his mother
purchased for him in the department stores were of such delicacy,
such air-light flavor, that they seemed to slip away from his lips
as he bit into them. "This is to me, as music is to others," 
Gottfried said to himself. "I shall see to the matter." Upon 
finishing his mandatory schooling, and a stint in the Austrian
army in which he was a cook, he attended the finest culinary school
available, and became a pastry chef. While schooling he met Komiko,
his love, who however slipped away from him. He began to search for
the elusive combination of ingredients which could impart the 
sweetness of the taste of a woman's skin beneath his lips. He did not
succeed, but his efforts brought him great renown.
     It was at this time that Chef Gottfried began to see 
unidentified flying objects. He was certain that no madness was the
cause, first of all, because if he was concerned about being mad, 
then of course, the concern was proof of his sanity. Second, he was
certain he was not mad, because his studies had persuaded him that
madness did not exist. Finally, he was certain he was not mad, 
because sometimes others saw these objects too.
     The first one, which he saw in the sky above his kitchen window
while cooking blintzes one evening, was neon purple and shaped like
a fish-hook. He watched as it zigzagged and tritsch-tratsched
across the sky, then suddenly darted behind the moon, went around
and came out on the other side, and vanished into a cloud.
     The second time he saw a UFO, he was in France on vacation,
and had stepped out of the Louvre to have a cigarette. There in the
sky, among the fluffy white clouds, was a gigantic rotating cylinder
of cinema popcorn.
     "I am mad," Chef Gottfried said. Accordingly he asked another
man next to him, an older man with a swelling gut who also was 
smoking, "See here, do you see that box of popcorn in the sky?"
     "I don't speak German," the man said in French.
     "Do you see the giant popcorn box up there, next to the cloud
shaped like a wedding cake?" Chef Gottfried said through his teeth,
speaking French this time.
     "Oh, yes," the man said. "Yes, I do. Sure thing, old friend.
It's big and it says 'Hohenzollorn Popping Corn' on the side."
     "You have good eyes," said Chef Gottfried, peering more closely
at the UFO. "I can't read anything on the box at all."
     For several years thereafter, a succession of pill-bottles,
pocket calculators, lavatory paper rolls, cheese graters, pick-axes,
eight-track tapes, shaving brushes, dot-matrix computer printers
drifted through the sky under Chef Gottfried's direct scrutiny.
When he described this visions to others, they always nodded 
carefully and then quickly left his company to pass on to others
the news of what startling things were to be seen (usually over 
Austria).
     Then, one bright spring day, Chef Gottfried realized that he had
not seen a flying object for over two years. "It's over," he said.
"I must have been mad, but now I'm not." He then checked to be 
certain that both pairs of his ears were in place.


 Chapter Twelve


     Carefully, Happosai balanced a cherry on top of the pile of 
lingerie.
     "Ha ha!" he cried. "I love it!"
     Since the pile of lingerie was over twenty feet high, reaching
the top had required him to use his power to float around in 
seemingly random directions as if weightless.
     "Ha ha!" he cried. "I love it!"
     And he did, too.

Chapter Thirteen

     While Happosai was placing his cherry, some time passed. In the
kitchens of the Kuno ancestral home, Kodachi had spent the week so 
far busily experimenting with a ton of pineapples supplied to her by
her father, who now referred to her as "Pineapple Girl in Blue 
Leotard." She considered changing her nickname to "The Black 
Pineapple" to please him, but seeing what had happened to her brother
the previous week, she decided in a lucid moment that getting so much
of his attention meant getting her lustrous hair cut far too close
properly to frame her magnificent eyes and delicate facial structure.
     Kodachi was certain that she had managed to incorporate
pineapple into every recipe she knew. In addition to pineapple
cake, pineapple bread, and pineapple cookies, and various kinds of 
meat, fowl, shellfish, and finny fish impregnated with pineapple,
she had also made pineapple tea, pineapple coffee, pineapple salad,
pineapple eggs scrambled, fried, boiled, poached, and folded like an
omelet, pineapple pizza, pineapple. . .  Well, her hands smelled
like pineapple. The kitchen smelled like pineapple. The hands and 
kitchen of everyone within a block smelled like pineapple. She was 
ready.
     "I wonder how my darling Ranma and that repulsive nit Akane 
Tendo are doing with their preparations?" she fluted. "I just simply
must go and spy on them just a little. Oh, what a joyous lark this
shall be! I haven't had so much fun since I tripped Kerri Strug 
during her final vault! HAHAHOHOHEHE,  HAHAHOHOHEHE!"
     She then flounced off, with ribbons, flower petals, bits of 
pineapple, and the sound of shakuhachi playing  "The Mother Crane
Calling to her Babies" drifting behind her.
     When she arrived at the Tendo dojo, taking up a hiding place
on the roof, she saw Genma Saotome in his panda form, reading a book
called "How to Defend Yourself Against People Armed with Fresh 
Fruit." Hanging from the roof, she read over his shoulder.

"First you shoot him. Then, you eat the pineapple, thus disarming
him."

     "RRRM," said the panda.
     She crept over the roof to a position over the kitchen. Using
one of the spikes on one of her thousand clubs, she delicately
punched a hole in the roof in order to spy on what was happening
below.

     In the kitchen below, the tall, scrawny gaijin -- Chef 
Gottfried, though she did not know this was his name -- was pulling
three batches of doughnuts from the oven. The first batch was 
golden-brown, light and fluffy, and gave off a tantalizing aroma of 
cinnamon. The second batch was slightly burnt, and the doughnuts
were not that well-shaped and looked a little soggy, but the batch
still looked edible. The third batch was horrible. The doughnuts
looked like mottled protozoa. There were bits of what looked like 
fish bones poking out of some of them. The smell from this batch was
not earthly.
     "Generally, doughnuts are not prepared with tuna," said Chef 
Gottfried. "However, we shall sample these nevertheless."
Using tongs, he removed one of the fishy doughnuts from the baking
pan and took a tentative bite. Immediately he fell to the floor with
his face turning black.
     Kodachi watched, rubbing her hands together with glee. If this
was all Akane Tendo could do, then darling Ranma was as good as hers!
     "Yep, these should take care of Happosai all right," Ranma said.
"I'll put on any bra that pervert comes up with if he can eat a whole
tray of these without dying." He leaned over the pan of slightly
soggy doughnuts. "Not too bad, Akane. I'll try  to make a batch for
real now."
     Akane grinned. "Okay."
     "What?" Kodachi shrieked, leaping to her feet. It was 
impossible! Akane Tendo could never cook anything that was actually
edible! "No! I refuse to believe that! It is a deception they have
perpetrated upon me, to conceal the true calamity that is Akane 
Tendo's culinary heritage. And yet, if they seek to deceive me, then
they must have discovered that . . .  Eh?"  Someone was tapping
on her shoulder. She turned and saw Ranma standing there, holding
one of the fishy doughnuts. "We don't appreciate being spied on," he
said, waving the doughnut under her nose. Kodachi slid gently to the
rooftop, as unconscious as though she had been dosed with ether.
She awoke to find herself lying on a mat inside the Tendo dojo. Soun
Tendo, who was missing the hair on one side of his head, was seated
nearby in the lotus position, smoking a cigarette. "Wha?" said 
Kodachi. "Some people come in by the door," Soun said sternly.
"I get enough holes knocked in my walls and roof  by the people who
live here, without you punching holes as well." Kodachi sprang to her
feet; but she was still a little woozy. She ran for the door. 
Genma-panda, still holding his book about fresh fruit self defense,
entirely filled that exit. He lifted a sign beside his head:  "Anyone
for tea?" His face unreadable, Soun snubbed out his cigarette
on the floor and rose. He cracked his knuckles, and lifted from the
floor behind him a large box. "Now, my dear," he said, as Kodachi
cast her head rapidly this way and that, "we have a message for you
to deliver to your father."

TO BE CONTINUED

In the next and final thrilling installment:

Kasumi and Ukyo talk about cooking; Chef Gottfried's lesson in love;
the climax (??) of the practical  joke war; and when the day of the
contest dawns, who really will be the special judge on Yen Can Cook?