Eventually Zecora stepped away from the table, albeit hesitantly and with more than a touch of regret. She was full but sincerely wished she wasn't. She had never tasted dishes the likes of what she was served that evening in her life: a cream soup made from the essence of rose petals and apple blooms which started with the lightest of flavor and slowly strengthened as you swallowed, mashed potatoes with the texture of a cloud, corn slow-boiled in lightly-sugared water and then baked... 