* * *

After many nights of rewarming casseroles brought by friends and neighbors, Keith tried to convince Jaya to go out for dinner, just to their neighborhood bistro a few blocks away, but she refused to leave the house. So, falling back on his earliest skill with women, he decided to cook something. Rummaging in the pantry, he found linguine, canned tomatoes, olive oil, capers, anchovies and chili flakes, and improvised a pasta dish. It felt surprisingly good when the steam from the boiling water rose to his face, to hear the satisfying crackle of oil in the hot pan as he prepared the sauce. He had forgotten this simple pleasure of preparing a meal, of throwing in pinches of salt and chili pepper until it suited him, an extra drizzle of fruity olive oil on top of the finished plate.

“Oh my god, Dad. This is so good,” Karina said as they ate together at the kitchen table, with cloth napkins and a bottle of wine he’d opened. She twirled large forkfuls of pasta and ate them in one bite, then wiped the bowl with a crust of bread until it was clean. Jaya ate well too, finishing her plate and getting a second serving, and this brought Keith deep satisfaction.

A shared love of food was one of the things that had brought him and Jaya together after meeting in London. Unlike his wife, Keith hadn’t grown up with fine food, and his appreciation of the gourmet was hard-won. When times had been tight in their household, Keith’s mother had clipped coupons religiously and composed meals from an unlikely combination of ingredients that happened to be deeply discounted: grape jelly went into spaghetti sauce, canned corn into meatloaf. Keith never knew how haphazard this fare was until he went away to college and began eating with friends who hailed from New York and Boston. Only then did he experience the sheer bliss of eating food that was expertly paired, not unnaturally forced together in desperation. A delicate piece of raw ahi dipped in soy sauce. A pungent leaf of basil on a slice of buffalo mozzarella. A drizzle of aged balsamic on fresh strawberries.

Once he’d stepped into that world, made infinite in Manhattan, there was no turning back. He was determined to learn how to cook for himself. By his junior year, when he shared an apartment, he was going to Zabar’s and blowing an entire week’s food budget on the ingredients for a slow-simmered Bolognese or coq au vin. These skills made it easy for him to score with girls in college, who were easily won over by any kind of home-cooked meal. Keith still loved to spend Sundays watching football and drinking beer with his buddies, but he became infamous for what he accomplished on Saturday nights with his famous linguine with clams. Perhaps because attracting women suddenly came easily to Keith, he found himself bored with most of them.

Jaya was the first woman Keith found himself interested in for more than a few months; his attraction grew as he got to know her better. He wasn’t the least bit surprised—though he was intimidated—to learn she’d lived in seven countries. Jaya picked up languages like passport stamps, speaking four of them by the time she graduated from university. They explored food and culture together throughout the great city of London, trying out new cuisines like Afghani and Ethiopian, then seeking out special markets to replicate dishes in his flat’s tiny kitchenette.