That’s me.
The dummy who is having trouble deciphering how to make beef meatloaf and steamed dark greens.
I reread the recipe for the third time. Do I put the eggs in on top of the meat, or in a separate bowl? Lord, who knows.
The counter is now littered with ingredients, measuring cups, spoons, a bunch of herbs—some of which I’ve never heard of—and the basics like flour, pepper, salt, and garlic powder.
A loaf pan. I need a loaf pan...
What on earth is a loaf pan?
Urgh, Marie, how could you do this to me?
“Need a hand?” a small voice chirps from the doorway.
I jump, dropping the wooden spoon that was in my hand.
“Oh my god, where did you come from?” I ask the young girl in the kitchen entrance.
“I heard you swearing from next door.” She’s trying and failing to flatten a cheeky smile.
Oh shit.
I mean, dammit.
You shouldn’t swear around kids, I’m guessing.
“Sorry, I’ll keep it down.”
“That’s okay.” She walks in, slipping onto a stool like she’s done this before. “I can help.”
“Um . . . okay?”
“I’m Maisey. What are you making?”
“I’m Celeste.”
I turn the binder around to face her, and she slides it closer, nodding. “Yum!”
“Really?” I wring my hands through the apron covering my jeans and sweater.
“We’ll make it yummy.”
I chuckle and she smiles up at me. I like this kid. She’s got spunk.
“You read the recipe, and I’ll do the grunt work,” she says, sending the binder sliding over the counter toward me.
“You can’t read?”
“I’m in kindergarten, lady, so that’s a no.”
I can’t help laughing at her, but I try to tamp it down, pressing my lips together and holding a hand over my mouth.
“Got it,” I finally manage to say.
“So, what’s the first instruction in the recipe?” she asks.
I raise a brow. “You sure you can’t read?”
