Annual.

"You would not believe how much food we have," she says, gliding through the kitchen. "Everyone wants to feed us."

The countertops are bursting with foil tins, yet to me, they still seem empty.

"I've tasted five kinds of spaghetti. This one's the best." She offers me a plate.

"No, thanks," I say, backing away. "I think I'd rather starve."