Come evening, with Jennifer and Jack both out, Maya set about making dinner without being asked. Only James was home, crawling around the floor; she paid him no mind and tipped two kilograms (four and a half pounds) of flour into a big iron basin.
A pale-blue orb the size of a muskmelon bloomed over her right palm—a Rasengan. With a water dipper in her left hand she trickled in water, brought the orb down close to the batter, and shut her eyes, riding her senses to keep the rhythm. Little by little the flour and water churned under the spinning Rasengan and set into a smooth, even dough.
Maya let out a long breath. Nine hand seals, one after another—pop, pop, pop—and four more Mayas stood in the kitchen, each draped in a black Akatsuki cloak.
By now the baby had frozen solid. Block in one fist, mouth hanging open, drool sliding down his chin, James gaped at his big sister—sisters. His half-formed little brain could not begin to process how he'd suddenly acquired five of them.
Maya ignored him. The five of them formed a circle, flung the giant ball of dough into the air, and—with a rhythmic hah, hah, hah, hah—blurred into motion, hammering the airborne dough in a rattling rat-tat-tat-tat. Look close and you'd count ten small fists, white as polished jade, each flickering with a faint gold light.
Maya had Chakra Enhanced Strength going now—four clones and one original, five minds linked, senses shared, every punch measured so the dough took force evenly and hung there in midair, never once dropping.
Fifteen minutes of nonstop pummeling. The four clones were fine; the original Maya's forehead was slick with sweat.
Poof, poof, poof—the four clones winked out at once. Maya dropped onto the couch and kneaded her temples for a good while before the ache behind her eyes eased off.
Rasengan to mix the dough, Chakra Enhanced Strength to knead it—and now Maya pulled a big slab of pork belly from the freezer and hefted it. About three and a half kilograms (seven and a half pounds), give or take.
She didn't bother with a knife. Index and middle finger pressed together into a blade, and a thin, clean wind wound itself around them—wind-natured, razor-keen, cutting like a hot knife through butter. Shrrip—the skin peeled clean off the pork in one pass.
"Mincing it finer isn't always better," Maya murmured, and a cluster of pale-gold "flames" crackled and leapt over her palm, ziss, ziss. She patted the slab with that hand, even strokes all over. It wasn't fire, of course. It was her Chakra Scalpel—only instead of a single blade, a whole bristling bouquet of them. And she wasn't slicing the meat so much as breaking down the sinew inside it, roughly the way char siu gets made in The God of Cookery—Stephen Chow beating the tendons apart with inner force.
That done, another Rasengan spun up over her right palm—this one threaded through with wisps of deep blue-green. A Wind Style: Rasengan. She lifted the slab and fed it down into the orb from above. Shhrrr—even shreds of pork sprayed across the tabletop around her hand, until the slab was gone and a ring-shaped mountain of shredded pork sat where it had been.
Maya swept the mound of shredded pork into the freshly washed basin and worked in minced scallion, ginger, and the rest of the seasonings. After a moment's thought she split the filling in two—chopped cilantro into one half, shiitake and napa cabbage into the other.
Tonight's dinner, clearly, was ninjutsu dumplings.
Dumplings shouldn't be boiled too early—sit too long and they turn to mush—so Maya parked herself in front of the TV to wait.
Later that evening, Jennifer came home in tears. Again. Trailing behind her, briefcase in hand and thoroughly deflated, came Jack.
"Dumplings tonight. I'll go put the water on." Maya didn't ask what was wrong between the two of them; she just got up and headed for the kitchen.
Soon a rich aroma like nothing they'd smelled before came drifting into the little living room. Cold war forgotten, husband and wife both craned their necks around the kitchen doorway.
"Maya, these dumplings smell incredible—did Huang send them over?" Jack was the first to ask.
"I haven't been in at Huang's shop for days. I was home all afternoon watching TV—you know that." Maya watched the plump white dumplings tumbling in the pot, and as she spoke she splashed in another half-dipper of cold water.
Five minutes later Jennifer had stopped sniffling. Blowing hard on a steaming dumpling, she cried, "Maya, you're incredible—I have never in my life eaten anything this good! Sob—honestly, if I could eat dumplings like this every day, divorcing Jack would be worth it!"
"Guh—hic—no divorce, I'm innocent, Jennifer, quit twisting everything around—hoo, hot, so hot, so good—hoo—absolutely no divorce!" Jack shoveled it in and mumbled around the mouthfuls.
Half an hour later the three of them lay sprawled on the couch, bellies round and taut, too pleasantly stuffed to want to say another word. Cooking by ninjutsu really was overpowering—it wrung nearly every last quality out of the ingredients. The near-translucent wrappers looked paper-thin, yet they had real chew, a springy give of gluten under the teeth. The filling was perfectly marbled, lean and fat in balance, melting on the tongue; the rich juices carried a faint wheat sweetness, and the shiitake-and-cabbage half had a vegetal fragrance all its own. Even Maya was floored by it. A slip of a girl, and she'd put away half a kilogram—a bit over a pound—of the big dumplings. Between her, Jack, and Jennifer, the three of them had gone through two and a half kilograms (five and a half pounds) tonight.
"This can't go on!" Jennifer suddenly wailed. "Maya, this is all your fault—you made me eat this much. How much exercise am I going to have to do tomorrow to burn off these calories?"
Maya curled her lip at the complaint. "Jennifer, you personally demolished a full kilogram of dumplings just now. A whole kilogram. I even had to boil a second batch halfway through to keep you two fed. It tasted plenty good a minute ago—and now it's my fault?"
"I was channeling my grief into appetite. You should have stopped me—put your foot down." Jennifer heaved a sigh. "Well. Looks like my Broadway comeback gets pushed back yet again."
Belly full, Maya's curiosity got the better of her. "So what were you crying about this time? Jack been making eyes at that café owner again?"
"Ohh, that no-good, faithless Jack—" Jennifer launched straight into her woes. "Maya, you have no idea. That Audrey woman hit me tonight! She actually had the nerve to hit me, and Jack just stood there and didn't lift a finger. The man has no heart—after I even gave him James!"
Feeling Maya's gaze swing his way, Jack scrambled to explain. "Maya, you have to believe me—you saw it yourself this afternoon, I can't get a lick of work done at home. So this evening I went to Audrey's café. I was only borrowing the space to write my screenplay, that's all. My conscience is completely clean!"
That set Jennifer off. "Last time I caught the two of you cooing at each other, and this time she's sitting right up next to you again, and those roving eyes of yours were glued to her chest—she knew you were looking and stuck it out even further! I went to grab her, and that little b— she shoved me flat on the floor in one shove. And what were you doing? Blocking me! Shielding that little b—! I swear, one of these days I will get even!"
"Jennifer, Audrey was only reading my screenplay, I swear. You were the one who made a scene first—I held you back for your own good. Didn't you see those big, strapping waiters she's got in that place?" Jack pleaded, patient as a saint.
Maya shot Jack a look. This one was no angel either. The part about ogling the woman's chest was definitely true, and now he just wanted it quietly swept under the rug.
She thought it over, then turned to her mother. "Jennifer—do you seriously want revenge? To actually go beat up this Audrey?"
"Of course I do!" Jennifer said, rock-firm.
"All right. I'll help you—a way to blow off your steam and make sure she doesn't dare do anything about it afterward."