I grab her phone and scan the recipe. “I think you were supposed to sauté the vegetables first,thenadd them to the sauce.”
She squints at the bubbling pot, then back at me, lips pouted. “I don’t think the order matters.”
I laugh. “Then why are the steps numbered? Usually numbers suggest order.”
She waves a hand between us. “It’ll be fine.” She leans in to sniff the sauce. “It smells good. What spices are next?”
I read from the recipe, grabbing the spice jars. “Okay, grab a measuring spoon and start adding.”
I scoop and drop spoonfuls into the pot.
“Is it supposed to be mounded like that or level with the spoon?” Miranda asks.
“I think level, but my mom always said she measured with her heart. She swore more spice was better.”
“That makes sense,” Miranda agrees. “Adding more flavor never hurts.”
The sauce starts bubbling harder, popping like lava. One burst hits my arm with scalding sauce just as I drop in a heap of seasoning.
“Ouch!” I hiss, rubbing my forearm. “Did the recipe say to heat it to the same temperature as the surface of the sun?”
Miranda chuckles and takes my hand, leading me to the sink. She pushes my sweatshirt up past my elbow. “I’m sorry,” she says, still laughing. She turns on the cold water and runs it over the burn.
Her hands are soft, careful.
“You sure you don’t want to order Chinese again? We’ve got their number memorized by now.”
“No, we can do this. It just takes practice.” She keeps my wrist under the stream. “Does that feel better?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
The truth is, I’m more focused on her skin against mine than the burn.
A loud pop from the stove draws our attention. We turn just in time to see a geyser of sauce explode, raining molten red droplets all over the kitchen.
“Oh shoot!” Miranda rushes to turn the heat down and yelps when another bubble bursts near her hand.
“You okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” she insists, cheeks flushed pink. “Just wasn’t expecting it to… attack.”
I shake my head, laughing. “Yeah, liquids tend to do that when you crank the heat tolava.”
She gestures around dramatically. “This is a safe space for learning, Miles. Less cynicism, please.”
She shoots me a playful glare, then grabs a wooden spoon to stir the sauce. Her brows knit. “Is one of the ingredients supposed to turn black?”
Grabbing a towel, I dry my arm and join her. Sure enough, black flakes float atop the bright red sauce.
I scoop a spoonful, blow on it, and take a cautious taste—instantly grimacing.
“Is it bad?”
I just nod.
“No way,” she says, taking the spoon and tasting it herself. Her eyes water as she covers her mouth. “Oh my God, that’s vile. Why does it taste like that?”
“What does it taste like?”
