“Aww, you [i]have[/i] noticed me.” A memory of good humor sparkled in her eyes, then faded once more. “He. Usually took care of,” Preparing her meals? Fitting time to eat into her days? Keeping her alive? “Such things. I’ve let him do as he pleases now, a sort of, leave of absence.” Of her. From her. “It’s. Been quite some time, since I’ve had to think about...”

And that was quite enough pity for one day. Either she was going to sit here and starve, or do something about it. If only the latter could be as effortless as the former. But when she planted her feet, and dug her claws into the table for leverage, Hestia’s hand was waiting to help her up.

“Have you any pasta-related wisdom to spare too? The kitchens ought to be quiet now, and the Alced won’t be here for days. Even if they hurry it up they can’t take the bridge if there’s nobody there to take it from. It’s just the principle of the thing.”

*******

“So now I just...wait?”

“And stir, occasionally.”

“How occasionally?”

“Every few minutes. Doesn’t need to be precise. Just enough to keep the noodles from clumping together.”

“There’s no spice or, I don’t know, seasoning, I should be adding? Just wait?”

“Ten minutes if you like them firm. Twelve if you like them softer.”

"Usually, there's a sauce of some kind to go with it. Shouldn't we be starting that?"

"Once you've graduated from pasta."

“...this isn’t a test, is it? There’s not some secret step that I ought to deduce from what’s come before?”

“We’re not making a test. We’re making lunch.”

“Ah. Of course.”

“...”

“...”

“...it’s just, boiling pasta. There’s something about it that sounds, I don’t know, complicated? Involved? I always imagined it a bigger fuss than this.”

“Everything sounds bigger than it is, at first. But we all get there in our own time.”

“Like ten to twelve minutes?”

“Ten to twelve minutes, sometimes.”

**************************************************************

Once upon a time, there was a little chef who wasn’t happy just being a chef. So unhappy was he, that one night he broke every rule he’d ever learned, snuck aboard a spaceship, and left his rightful place far behind. This made the little chef happy, for a time. He saw many wonderful things, met many wonderful people, cooked them all sorts of delicious things, and even found a wife he could hold and treasure forever. But this, too, wasn’t enough. His friends could not journey with him. The sights of space revealed themselves to be full of danger and despair. And even his marriage threatened to crumble to dust. So the little chef asked the wise goddess Hera what he should do to fix his cursed heart.

And Hera, in her infinite wisdom, told him he hadn’t broken enough rules the first time. 

The little chef held some small concern. He told Hera, “I don’t know, wise Hera. This wisdom may be too high for me to understand.” But could he, a mere chef, so easily discard the words of one so wise? Shouldn’t he ought to, at least, follow after her, and see the results for himself? This was a wisdom more his station. “If you think it wise, then I will try my best.”

And what would his first desire be?

“Mynx ought to eat. And she won’t, unless somebody prepares her food in a way that she will accept. It is not so different a desire than those I’ve had before, but I know I can do this much.”