Caroline hadn't cooked too terribly much since she'd gotten to Xavier's, preoccupied with crying in her room the first few weeks, and then trying not to die when things went all to Hell. But you didn't grow up on honest-to-God Creole cuisine and find yourself in the north completely fine with their utter lack of flavor. So it was down to the kitchens she went every so often, laden with ingredients shipped from home and the best shops in Manhattan, a meal for 12 writing itself up in the back of her mind.

She's roughly 174 pounds when she walks in and dropping fast, having downed a few boxes of cheezits before she came down to bulk up, so she might carry all the ingredients and pots and pans down with ease. Granted, she isn't expecting anyone to be in there cooking, and the thought of shrinking in her clothes in front of someone who wasn't a training instructor still makes her a little uncomfortable. The sound of grease popping and vegetables sizzling stops her in her tracks, and she makes an effort to walk a little slower and conserve energy on her way to set the pile of ingredients on the counter. Her dress already looks a little big --

And then she smells the spices. And the okra. And the shrimp. And was that the Holy Trinity she smelled in that pan? The thought that this might be ~the infamous Cajun~ she's heard so much about doesn't occur to her; her face lights up, and she peers into what's in the pots. "Well, hi!" she says, in the cheeriest Lousiana drawl you ever did hear. "I didn't know there was any other Creole chefs 'round here!"