Oh, Lord.

Caroline's face freezes up as soon as the words come out of his mouth. Of course. Of course he's Cajun. Of course the only other person who knows how to properly use an onion is some disgusting little river rat from the bayou. Surely some ethereal deity was getting his kicks out of this. First she's a fat-ass and has to leave home, and now she's stuck with -- ugh. She forces a smile, and for a brief second before it falls into place, it almost looks natural. But the tic on her eye and the twitch of her cheeks clearly make it anything but.

"I sure am," she says after a second, and makes a point of busing herself with the pile of ingredients she's brought down. "Just moved in a couple months back when my -- mutation started up. Trust me, sugar, cheeseburgers and pizza don't have nothing on a good old plate of etouffee." Then its over to the refigerator to pull out the meat and shrimp and eggs. She is making an effort to be as brisk as possible -- and still shrinking; there's a brief pause for her to tug at the drawstring on her waist and make the dress fit again. Common courtesy dictated that she leave the kitchen to him, since he was there first and in the middle of a meal, but Caroline apparently had no intention of waiting. She was starving. "You seen a plate a crawfish in here?" she asks, straightening up from the fridge. Knowing his kind, he's probably using it. Ew.