Micah looked horrified. “Oh. I’m sorry. I figured—”
“No, it’s fine. It’s a lovely reminder. I haven’t had Kerala cuisine since I was a kid.”
I scanned the foods lining the counter, surprised that it all looked like something I could eat. After the afternoon at Micah’s mom’s, I’d worried I was always going to be rummaging through cabinets for leftovers and accidentally edible extras. “Pratosh, this all looks wonderful. Thank you.”
Pratosh placed a bowl in front of Micah. “I’m mixing together ginger, green chilies, turmeric, and coconut milk.” He stirred the mixture and handed the bowl to Micah.
I tilted my head as Micah began to whisk the ingredients. His ebullient grin returned. “Pratosh is going to teach me to cook.”
It wasn’t lost on me that what Pratosh was teaching Micah to cook was healthy food. Pratosh emptied a plastic bag of shrimp into another bowl. “Ma’am, do you eat shrimp?”
“Yes, Pratosh. I love shrimp.”
He rinsed the shrimp and passed them to Micah. “Drop these into the sauce to coat.”
They worked together cooking the shrimp, tossing the salad, plating the meal, and serving it onto the table.
Micah set out glasses. “What do we have to drink, Pratosh?”
“Strawberry-lemon-infused water, sir.”
Pratosh set a pitcher of pink water on the table, and Micah poured me a glass.
I took a sip. “Wow. This is amazing, Pratosh. Do you know how much sugar is in this?”
“Three grams per glass, ma’am.”
“Unbelievable.” It tasted sweet and so cold and delicious.
Micah couldn’t contain his happiness. “You like it?”
I leaned over the corner of the table and met him for a kiss. “I can’t believe you did this. It’s incredible.”
“Pratosh, what’s for breakfast?”
“It’s a surprise, sir.”
Breakfast? “Pratosh, are you staying here?”
“No, ma’am.”
Micah explained. “Pratosh specializes in tailored menus. I hired him to come cook us dinner, but also teach me to fish, so to speak. I don’t want you to have to dig up peanut butter and crackers ever again.”
“I don’t know what to say. Thank you. I’m blown away.”
“Oh, and Pratosh, did you do the other thing?”
“Yes, sir.” Pratosh opened the fridge and displayed a stack of plastic restaurant-like boxes. He pulled one out. Inside, he’d packed an assortment of small foods. It looked like an elaborate snack box. The one he showed me had a small sandwich of some variety made with wheat bread, a couple of carrot sticks, a small box of milk, and almonds.
Micah said, “So you don’t go hypo.”
“Go hypo?” I cracked up. “Have you been researching?”
“I wanted to understand what you’re dealing with. I don’t know how you do it, Josie. I’d lose my mind. But you just deal with it. You’re incredible.”
“You are. I am overwhelmed.”
“Well, let’s eat. The shrimp is getting cold.” He looked over at our chef. “Pratosh, how do you sayshrimpin Mala—” He made a face at me.
