I didn’t know the name of the French food goddess who’d birthed Leaf, but I wanted to offer her tribute. He was a gift unto normal people when it came to kitchen technique. We sat at a small, tidy square table in his kitchen, shoes off, sock-clad toes bumping into one another below. I devoured my thin strips of steak sautéed with green and red peppers and onions. I inhaled my flatbread and spicy rice and a squash side dish full of garlic.

It was incredible.

Stinky, but incredible.

If I kiss any chef, it’s only because I know he reeks as bad as I do.

“This is so good,” I said. “Like, I can’t even boil water without burning it.”

Leaf beamed. “Thank you! I take pride in my cooking. One day, I’d like to have my own restaurant, I think. What about you?”

“You wouldn’t want to eat at my restaurant. My daily special would be hot boiled garbage.”

Leaf chuckled and spooned rice onto his flatbread, wrapping it up and tucking it between his lips. “Do you know what you want to do for a living, I mean? After school?”

I ran my napkin across my lower face before replacing it on my lap. Soon, there would be no lap, only the bulbous protrusion that was my growing offspring. “I dunno. I thought I’d go to an Ivy League, maybe become an English professor because I’m a cliché. But with the kid, I may look at a state school. Way cheaper, accessible for mom hours. Boston’s a long train ride.”

“I could see you being a teacher. You could be Weller Junior.”

“I’m not that mean,” I said. “I don’t actually lure children into my gingerbread house to eat them.”

“If you try hard and believe in yourself, anything is possible,” he retorted.

I stared at him.

And then I laughed. He joined in before reaching over to pat the back of my hand.

We finished dinner a few minutes later. Leaf cleared the table, talking more about Romani customs, including how he washed his utensils separate to avoid contamination—they went in his mouth, other dishes did not. I asked if he wanted any help but he declined. There was a ritualistic aspect to handling china, he explained, and I assumed it had to do with that term he’d taught me in the library: mochadi. I’d do more harm than good messing with things, and so I sat at the table, my fingers toying with the lace edging on the pink apron he’d folded and put on an end table.

“Was this your mom’s?” I asked.