I’d whip up a midnight‑soup of midnight‑chicken, infused with the salt of the desert’s old dunes and a splash of moon‑water from the old lake that vanished after the fire festival. Legend says the chicken that survived that fire ate only that water and grew wings of fire‑glow. When you stir it, the broth sings like a wind‑harp, and the aroma will make even the grumpiest mayor gasp and say “yes, we’re fed.” If we pull it off, the whole town’s pantry will glow with the same glow‑fire, keeping hunger at bay for weeks. Plus, I’ll challenge the rival chefs to guess the secret spice—if they fail, we win, if they win, well, we’ll at least taste victory.