Free Buddha Baby by Kim Wong Keltner

to feel guilty. With these small gestures he taught her something she surprisingly had not quite believed at first, which was that she deserved kindness.
    Theirs was not a romance of screaming tantrums followed by dramatic reconciliations, but she had come to realize that a clock-radio hurled at one's face at 2 a.m. did not equal passion. Pat Benatar was wrong. Love didn't have to be a battlefield.
    She looked up at Michael.
    "Tell you what," he said. "If you can wrestle me off you, you can say no. Otherwise, you have to say yes."
    Lindsey grabbed him and pulled him down. "I don't need to fight you," she said. "Of course I'll marry you."
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Po-Mo, Slo-Mo, Lacto-Ovo

     
    Lindsey knew she was Asian because she was cutting meat with scissors.
    She was preparing a special dinner to celebrate their engagement, and her menu reflected their particularly multicultural union. In addition to the sliced steak she was going to grill, she was planning on making lasagna, layering thin sheets of
wonton pei
instead of pasta between tomato sauce and Chinese mushrooms. Any moment now she was expecting Michael home from work, and for cocktails she was soaking freshly peeled lychees in vodka for "lychee-tinis."
    "I'm home!" Michael yelled from the bottom of the stairs.
    "Hi, Babycakes," he said, entering the kitchen and smooching her. "What's all this?"
    "We're celebrating."
    "Mmm," he said. "Looks… interesting."
    He picked up an empty bottle of Chinese vinegar from the countertop.
    "What's this for?"
    "It was supposed to be for my special salad dressing."
    "Do we need to go to the market?"
    "Yeah," she said, "I ran out of fresh
wonton
skins, too." Washing her hands, she added, "The good thing about living in San Francisco is that even regular supermarkets sell all sorts of obscure Asian stuff."
    Soon enough, they were in the car and on their way to Albertson's. As they made their way there, Michael informed Lindsey that he had some irritating news. He said, "Starting tomorrow,
Vegan Warrior
is sending me on a top-secret mission to the Psychic Food Ashram in Santa Barbara."
    "What's that?" Lindsey asked.
    "It's a ritzy getaway spot for aging hippies and New Age truth-seekers who trade cultlike devotion for tomato juice enemas and the opportunity to be ridiculed by a coterie of dieticians, yoga instructors, and self-proclaimed metaphysical healers. The ashram also supplies Southern California's restaurants with 'psychically clean' produce that—get this—is guaranteed 'free of bad vibes.' I'm going to investigate exactly what comprises bad vibes and how the ashram can prove such a claim."
    Lindsey asked, "Isn't that a little short notice?"
    Michael swung into the parking lot. "Yeah," he said. "The original reporter was taken off the case after nearly choking to death on a chicken bone hidden in the Tofurky hash. Behind the compound walls there've been allegations of late-night Krispy Kreme binges and genetically modified tomatoes that taste like bacon. Something's definitely amiss. Unfortunately, that means I'll be leaving first thing in the morning."
    "How long will you be gone?"
    "As long as it takes me to figure out if they yell at the vegetables to make them grow faster. Howard says that's against the laws of the Slow Food Movement. Also, that would definitely constitute bad vibes."
    "Are you kidding?"
    "Baby, I wish I was."
    Just minutes after walking inside the store, Lindsey lost Michael. Standing in front of a row of pickles, she felt forlorn and confused. Every time they went to the supermarket they always lost each other within moments of getting there, and now she'd have to go looking for him. As she wandered past the rotisserie chickens, she ruminated on the strange inevitability of their separation. She was fairly certain she would find him on the arm of another female.
    It was true that Michael Carrier had magic powers over women. Ladies of a certain age, that is. The Ethel Mermans, Carol Channings, and empress dowagers of the