“I love nature,” she said, almost laughing. “Outdoors, where it belongs. Please, start eating. If you don’t like it, let me know.”
“Is it hot?”
“Very.”
“Great. That’s all I ask.”
Meals in the hospital had usually been lukewarm by the time they reached him. He’d developed a strong loathing for oatmeal that would have made a great wallpaper paste. The mess hall was better but, since army cooks had been replaced by private contractors, not what he remembered from the past. As for when he was in the field...
“One of the best meals I can remember eating,” he said as memory awoke, “was in a teahouse in Nepal.”
She looked up from her plate. “Nepal? What were you doing there?”
“Passing through. I can’t tell you any more than that. But they plied us with hot soup full of fresh vegetables, and roasted yak meat and yak milk. And an amazing amount of hot tea. Those people had next to nothing, Miri, but they treated us like kings.”
“They sound very welcoming.”
He almost smiled. “I’ll never forget them. Strangers in a strange land, and we were met with smiles, generosity and genuine welcome.” He looked down and scooped up more casserole. “I’ve noticed in my travels that the most generous people are often those who have the least. By no standard measure would you think the Nepalese were wealthy. But they were wealthy in soul and spirit.”
He emptied his plate in short order and Miri pushed the casserole dish toward him. “I’m not counting on leftovers. Eat, Gil.”
He was happy to oblige. Hot meals were still a treat.
“From what Al used to talk about, I guess you’ve seen a whole lot of the world.”
He raised his gaze, feeling himself grow steely again. Some matters were not to be discussed with civilians. “Not from a tourist perspective,” he said, closing the subject. A subject he’d opened himself, talking about Nepal. But it needed to be closed.
She nodded slowly, her blue eyes sweeping over his face. “Stay here tonight,” she said finally. “You can decide about the barbecue tomorrow.”
He was content to leave it there.
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