The PTA meeting was already running fifteen minutes late, but nobody could leave until we had enough food for the Holiday Potluck.

“Anybody?” Sherri asked. She was the PTA president this year, a mom of one of the fifth graders, and she thought entirely too much of her job. “Seriously, none of you have anything you can cook? Not a single one?”

The room exchanged nervous, irregular glances, each parent and teacher trying her best to pretend not to notice anything going on. If someone would just take one for the team, the stifling auditorium haze seemed to say, we could all go home.

I raised my hand.

Sherri’s eyes bore down on me, as did everyone else’s in the room. “Yes, Mrs. Hellman?”

“I have a dish that I’ve, uh, wanted to try making for months now.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a chicken dish. I can marinate chunks of boneless chicken in spices and yoghurt, coat them in flour, sautée them for a bit, and toss them in a creamy orange tomato and coriander confection, serving them with mushrooms in a wine sauce.”

Murmurs of appreciation rippled through the room, which gave way to an indistinct chatter.

“That’s a lot of ingredients—”

“—it sounds nice, though—”

“—I’ve never thought of putting all that together—”

“—actually kind of craving that right now—”

Sherri raised her hand, palm forward, and the chattering died away. “Very well, Mrs. Hellman,” she said. “And does this dish have a name?”

“Chicken Tikka Masala Marsala.”

“No,” said everybody in unison.