Long years of artist's poverty had instilled in Terpsichore the skill of making something out of nothing, and with what Apollo had in his fridge she could make a veritable feast. Still, she gave him a smile when he had turned back around and a mock half-curtsy all the same. "I'm just a miracle worker, I guess."
Truth be told, half of it was pure luck: he had a perfect combination of leftovers that, with some creativity, could make a great dish. In the next few minutes Terpsichore cannibalized two sticks of butter, some left-over cream cheese, milk, parmesan at the back of the fridge, leftover cooked rotisserie chicken, and some spices to make something that resembled chicken alfredo sauce. It took five minutes and by the time the the sauce was done, the water for the pasta hadn't boiled yet.
"Well," she said, turning from the sink to wipe her just-washed hands on a cloth, "We have at least fifteen minutes. What should we do to pass the time other than stare at the water and hope it boils faster?"