She took out a spoon and tried to gently pry the steamed dumpling from the others. It resisted. A lot. She stopped with the gentle and pulled a little harder. The momo finally budged…sort of. It tore right in half, revealing the vegetable filling stained purple from the red cabbage.

“Fudge,” Kamila whispered.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen, was it?”

She glared at him and he wisely stopped speaking. He took the spoon from her hand and pulled on another one. But it also tore in half when he tried to dislodge it from the ball of momos.

“Did you grease the container before putting these in?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No.”

“Maybe putting hot steamed dough in contact with itself while cooling wasn’t a good idea?”

She pouted, peering into the container. Now it looked like a giant wad of wet tissues with gobs of purple snot peeking through. Nasty. What the hell was she thinking, making food herself? True, nothing was on fire, but what was she going to serve Anil?

“What’s that smell?” Rohan asked.

Of course. The paneer was burning.

*  *  *

The paneer, thankfully, wasn’t burnt. Well, not very burnt, at least. Just a little charred. Rohan took the gold pen and black note cards still on the dining table and rewrote the food label—Blackened Paneer Kebobs.

“They’re fine,” he said.

But the momos—they were not fine. Kamila had no idea how to salvage the doughy, gummy mass stuck to the bottom of her largest container. She eyed the mound, hoping inspiration would strike. Would steaming them again dislodge them from each other? Maybe freezing them and taking a chisel to them? She could throw the whole mass in the food processor and call it “deconstructed momo soup.”

“How do we save these?” she asked.

Rohan shook his head. “Glue is made from cooked flour. They’re permanently stuck.” He poked at them again with a chopstick.

Her shoulders fell. She was a disaster. Why did she think she could do this? She sighed as she scraped the blob out of the container, mutilating it even further, and tossed it into the compost bin.

Now all she had was some overcooked cheese on sticks and a pot of hot apple juice. Hardly sophisticated party food. Everyone would rave about the store-bought biryani, and no doubt someone would ask why the house smelled like burnt cheese. With a lingering flaming-sweet-potato undertone.

“Let’s make more,” Rohan said.

She looked at him, blinking. “More what?”

“Momos. There’s”—he checked his watch—“an hour and a half before everyone gets here. Do you still have ingredients?”

She nodded. She’d only used half the red cabbage, and there were plenty of carrots, green onions, and flour.

He pulled another apron from the hook beside the door.