I must say that I never encountered the kind of fuss over leftovers in my entire life. That is until my co-workers first whiffed the enchanting aromas of the concocted delights of my wife of six months. It didn't matter if it was day old succulent shrimp or two-day old Mandarin meat pie. As soon I deposited the dish within the office microwave for re-heating the wafting wandering herbs and spices permeated the atmosphere and brought everyone running.

The questions rang in my ears just like the fragrances tickled my nose. They all asked what was on the menu with mouth-watering resilience. At first I would receive glares from those who somehow felt more deficient for the lack of a juicy platter of Cipaille or a shared cup of bean soup in a garlic-butter broth.

If there was enough I administered an allotment on a spare spoon. But soon I lived by my self-penned catchphrase, "If there wasn't enough to go around, then I wouldn't bring it in." However that was easier said than done, as I had to eat lunch each day.

My wife loved to cook. With a demeanor of charm one evening I convinced her to cook bigger batches of exemplary entrees so that I might whet the appetites of my colleagues who became bleary-eyed each noontime. She was flattered. She answered the beckoned call and created comestible cuisines, now in triplicate.

The following day I delivered a batch of curried chicken with a side of rice pilaf and a basket of fruit. In the days that followed there were meat trays galore with a heaping helping of vegetables and fruit for those that refrained. It was the presentation that counted. It became an art form. My wife's hands begat ornamental provisions of sustenance that would cause the most Royal of Monarchs to applaud and be jealous.

My how they complimented me. I would, in turn, place the praise squarely upon my wife. They demanded that I dispense and divulge recipes. Some called me at home pleading with me to share her incomparable ingredients. I could not because I did not know how she did it. I would make reference to rare and exotic spices and seasonings from her homeland.

She emigrated unexpectedly and I found her walking aimlessly in the park late at night lost, dazed, and wearing a backpack. She could not even recall where she lived. She was helpless and in need. I offered to help her and she agreed as long as I did not touch her backpack.

I invited her home.

She wanted to cook. She fabricated a formidable feast of prime rib au jus with colorful mixed steamed vegetables. Before she let me savor the platter of victuals she seized a strange round container from her backpack. It flashed with a rainbow of colors. A digital read-out glowed above the latch. She battered her eyes flirtatiously and tapped in a series of numbers. "Must be important to keep it all secure like that," I said.

In the round container were several dozen spice and herb jars. She daintily picked one of the containers and spread the contents on the meal. "This is the finishing touch," she said gleefully.

The flavor was exhilarating.

"Where I come from we have specific jobs and responsibilities," she said. "It is my job to cook."

From then on she contrived countless culinary concepts but always referred to her container prior to apportioning the servings.

About a month ago I asked her, "What is in that container?"

"Let's just say that these are not local ingredients," she said and caressed it tighter in her arms.

"Local to here?" I asked.

"A bit farther away than here," she said coyly. "In fact you might say that my cooking is out of this world."

I gazed at her perplexed. I wanted to ask her an inventory of questions. Before I could she said as if in a daze, "Did I tell you that I've recovered my memory some?"

"Don't worry my love, I would never share your secret."

She turned and stared out the window to the starlit sky with a sigh. I would use her line the next time my colleagues pressed me. It began to make some sense. Out of this world. If they only knew how close to the truth that answer really was.