“You’re sweet. You really going to Sunday brunch this week?”

“Yes. They invited me, so I must go.”

She smiled as she patted his shoulder. “Well, have fun. I’ll be up north with friends.”

“What? You’re leaving me to face the den of wolves alone?”

She laughed. “Yup. You’ll do fine. They’re more bark than bite. Well, usually, at least.”

At dinner, Reena found it hard to pay attention to the conversation around her. Confirmation that her parents did sell her in a business deal had soured her mood.

She poked at her kebob, moving it around with her spoon.

“This is good,” Nadim said, eyeing her plate.

Reena tried to smile. “It is.”

“So, like,” Shayne said, helping himself to more kebob, “for the first video, you’re going to do Indian-fusion food, right? Like … I don’t know … curried shepherd’s pie, or butter chicken poutine?”

“No,” Reena and Nadim both said simultaneously. He looked at her and laughed.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s up to Reena, she’s the expert, but personally, fusion just means dumbed down. We don’t have to conform our food to the tastes of the majority.”

A small smile pushed through her sour mood. She’d been thinking the same thing, albeit she would have said it a bit differently. The point of this contest was to showcase home-cooked food. Fusion had its time and place, but with all the crap minorities were facing in the world, she didn’t feel much like making the food she grew up on more palatable to mainstream tastes.

“They want home cooking, so let’s give them the kind of food we grew up on,” Reena said, sitting straighter. “What was your favorite after-school snack when you were little?”

Nadim frowned. “At boarding school, they gave us tea and two biscuits. No more, no less.”

“Poor little rich boy.” Shayne laughed.

Marley’s forehead furrowed as she tapped her nails on the table. “Probably celery and peanut butter for me. Or Oreos.”

Reena chuckled. “Indian food, Marl …”

“I didn’t really eat Indian food after school. Oh, if there was leftover maani from dinner, I sometimes ate it with jam.”

Reena smiled widely, remembering her favorite snack. “Yes. Leftover maani with strawberry jam. Or, even better, with butter and sugar.” Her mouth started to water.

“Maani is like roti, right?” Shayne asked.

Reena nodded. “Roti, chapatti, rotli, maani, it’s all pretty much the same thing.”

“Forget leftover,” Nadim said, his eyes glazing with pleasure. “Fresh. My housekeeper used to make fresh maani after school for me. I’d eat them with ripe mangoes.”

Reena rolled her eyes with exaggeration. “Well, we peasants had to make do with leftovers.” She squeezed her lips together in thought. Mum had kicked little-girl Reena out of the kitchen so many times while she cooked, but the smell of fresh maani roasting over the stove felt like home.

“Maani is the homiest food we have, right?” Reena said, reaching for a slice of sourdough. “We should make it for the first video.”