The stew bubbles contentedly while I debate social protocols and wonder what constitutes appropriate neighborly behavior in situations involving attractive academics who bow formally and speak about courtesy with unusual gravity.
That's when the smell hits.
Barbecue. Rich, smoky, unmistakably carnivorous barbecue drifting down from 4B with aggressive aromatic intensity.
My peaceful kitchen meditation shatters. The careful vegan virtue I've been cultivating feels suddenly ridiculous in the face of whatever magnificent meat festival is happening one floor up. Ribs, probably. Slow-cooked, sauce-glazed, falling-off-the-bone ribs that smell like summer cookouts and comfort food heaven.
So much for ethical consistency.
I grab my headphones with more force than necessary and blast indie folk at volumes designed to drown out both barbecue aromas and the traitorous parts of my brain that find Ursak's meal choices appealing despite my carefully maintained dietary principles.
The music helps. Mandolin and harmonies create protective barriers against upstairs temptations while my virtuous lentil stew continues its patient simmer. I focus on lyrics aboutauthenticity and staying true to core values, which feels appropriately metaphorical.
Twenty minutes later, someone knocks.
I pause the music and listen. Three deliberate raps, precisely spaced. Definitely not random building maintenance or package delivery chaos.
Through the peephole: Ursak, holding what appears to be a piece of paper and wearing an expression of polite uncertainty.
"Maya? I apologize for the interruption."
I open the door to release stew aromas and indie folk ambiance into the hallway.
"Hey. What's up?"
"I have a question regarding language precision, and given your professional expertise with written communication, I hoped you might provide guidance."
He holds up a handwritten recipe card covered in careful script. His handwriting looks like calligraphy, each letter formed with deliberate attention to legibility and proportion.
"Recipe feedback?"
"Specifically regarding ingredient terminology. I am documenting traditional orcish recipes for cultural preservation purposes, but many ingredients lack direct human equivalents. I want to ensure accurate translation without sacrificing authenticity."
"That's actually fascinating. What's the problem ingredient?"
"Several, but this one proves particularly challenging." He points to a line near the top. "This translates literally as 'bitter green leaf that grows in forest shade,' but I suspect human readers would find that description inadequate for practical cooking purposes."
I lean closer to examine his handwriting. Neat, precise, beautiful in its consistency. The kind of penmanship that suggests someone who takes care with details.
"What does it taste like?"
"Sharp, slightly mineral, with bitter undertones that complement rich flavors. Hardy enough to maintain texture during extended cooking processes."
"Sounds like kale. Or maybe collard greens."
"Kale." He considers the word carefully. "But that loses the cultural context of foraging and forest connection."
"You could do both.Forest bitter greens like kale or collard greens work as substitutes.That way you preserve the original meaning but give people practical shopping guidance."
"Elegant solution. What about this one?" He points to another line. "'Root that grows deep and holds earth flavor.'"
"Turnips? Parsnips? Something in the root vegetable family."
"The original grows wild and tastes more complex than cultivated vegetables. Earth-sweet with mineral notes."
"Maybe 'wild root vegetables (parsnips or turnips as closest substitute).' You're basically creating a translation guide between orcish foraging culture and human grocery stores."
"Precisely. Cultural bridge-building through culinary documentation."
