It seemed to me that Metha was selling herself short as a cook when she told everyone that her food was edible. Of course, I loved Metha's cooking at first taste; many people felt differently. My friend Bill wouldn't touch a plate that he thought had once been used to serve food cooked by Metha, which she didn't find insulting at all but which I felt was terribly rude.

"People just aren't used to eating food like I cook," said Metha as she served me another helping. In truth, she was right, but that only made me feel sorry for people. Metha's food was not Indian, which came as a surprise to most people who thought she was Indian. Metha was actually of Nepalese extraction, although her grandmother's family were all British, from whence she came by her charming accent when she was flustered. But her food wasn't Nepalese either. Metha cooked fusion cuisine, and had been doing so since before the word "fusion cuisine" came into common parlance. She blamed her poor upbringing. I blamed everyone else's. My father wanted her recipes. My mother kept "losing them."

"They'll come around," I said, taking another mouthful of rice. That night, we were having stir-fry with macadamia nuts, salmon, tofu, and wilted turnip greens, plus the various sundries. Truth be told, even if Metha had let me in on her secret ingredients, I would never have tried to duplicate the dish. I have never been accused of being much of a cook myself. "I do feel bad about eating you out of house and home though."

"Who else would?" she grinned. "Honestly, you're the only person in this town who wants to have dinner with me. If I were attractive, I'd think you were trying to get into my pants. As it is, I think you're probably crazy."

"If you were attractive?"

Metha blushed. She had a nasty habit of doing that whenever anyone complimented her. I meant the compliment, although we both knew I had no intention of getting into her pants, unless a freak moth accident destroyed all my clothes and I needed something to wear to go to the store. And that would be a long shot, since Metha's pants would probably be several sizes too small for my feet, let alone my legs. She wore baggy pants, but her build was what could be called, "petite," if one were being understated. I don't think Metha and fat had never met, not even from across the room. I envied her effortless skinniness, as she ate whatever she wanted, didn't exercise, and was just generally annoying that way.

"Still, I just think people don't know what they're missing," I continued, my mouth finally empty. "I bet that five years from now everything you make will be all the rage in New York City and everyone will be coming from miles around to visit your culinary shrine."

"Your friends certainly don't seem to feel that way," said Metha. She had a point.

"Well the hell with them then. It's terrific."

"What did Modu tell you this evening?" she asked, changing the subject as she was in very real danger of combusting from all the blushing she was doing.

"'The rolling apricot gathers no moss,' or something like that," I muttered through a mouthful of greens.

"Sounds memorable."

"Well, it was better than that, but I'm still in training. You can't expect a trainee to be as eloquent as the master."

"'Foolishness is bound in the heart of a child, but the rod of correction shall drive it far from him,'" Metha said, bemusedly it seemed. "In this case, of course, I'm not sure to whom I should apply the rod. On the one hand, I would enjoy correcting Modu on one or two points. On the other, you could use a good knock on the head to let some sense in."

"Come on, it's not that bad," I said with a hurt look. "I'm really starting to see things differently."

"The second he starts asking for monetary donations, I want you to run in the opposite direction, you hear me."

"All he ever asks for is chai latte with soy milk. Well, that and excuses to chat up Orchid, which I always seem to screw up."

"Modu and Orchid. I pity that poor girl, and I've never even met her."

"Don't worry about her. She can take care of herself, believe me."

"Well, maybe you should have your guru over for dinner some time," Metha said with a sly smile.

"Metha, if I didn't know you better I would say you were planning some diabolical scheme to poison Modu or something with your cooking," I laughed. "Don't worry though, he wouldn't touch this food. Says it's bad for the soul to eat anything other than whole wheat bread and fresh spinach. He once almost beat me up for eating a peanut butter sandwich."

"How does he rationalize chai latte with soy milk then?"

"Well, in the coffee house, all bets are off. I've seen him eat a pound and a half of fudge in one sitting. I think it's some sort of weird space/time warp or something. Anything he eats there doesn't count. But anywhere else, whole wheat, spinach, and rain water."

"What if I made whole wheat and spinach sandwiches and we drank rain water?"

I was a little surprised. "Metha, why would you want him to come over for dinner? You can't stand the man."

"Oh, no reason," she said, with a look that said she was no longer interested in discussing the matter, and returned to the kitchen abruptly. I heard the sound of water running and then silence.