“Why do you want to help?”
“You make sense.” She said it like it was obvious. Like it was the highest compliment she could offer. “Other people are confusing. You’re not.”
Lincoln didn’t know what to do with that information. He filed it away for later processing and focused on the task.
“Okay, you can help. First, we assess. Identify all items. Categorize by type, then rank by quality.”
“What’s quality?”
“How good something tastes. How well it’s made. Whether it achieves its intended purpose.”
Marie considered this with the gravity of a scientist confronting a new hypothesis. “So we have to taste everything?”
“Assessment through direct observation is the most accurate method, yes.”
Something shifted in Marie’s expression—a brightness entering her eyes that Lincoln recognized. It was the look of someone who’d just realized they could combine duty with pleasure.
“I’m a vewy good taster,” she informed him.
“Noted.”
They began.
The first item was easy: Joy’s brown butter pecan tart. Lincoln lifted the cover, and Marie immediately leaned in, her whole body oriented toward the food.
“Joy’s food is always excellent,” he declared. “We probably don’t need to taste it, since she’s a professional. Then again, maybe we should verify. Scientific rigor requires?—”
“Scientific wigor,” Marie repeated, the ‘r’ slipping away from her, “means tasting Joy’s food. For science.”
For science. Exactly. Who could argue with that logic? He selected two small pieces—one for each of them—and they ate in companionable silence. The bourbon caramel was exceptional. The pecans had been toasted to precise golden perfection.
“Confirmed excellent,” Marie announced, licking caramel from her fingers.
“Agreed. Excellence end.” Lincoln positioned Joy’s tart at the far right of the table.
And just like that, they had a system.
They moved through the items systematically. Ella’s Fancy Pants contributions—professionally made, structurally sound, aesthetically pleasing—joined Joy’s at the excellence end. Violet’s traditional Christmas cookies, slightly old-fashioned but executed with obvious skill, went nearby.
“What about that one?” Marie pointed to a bundt cake that had been aggressively frosted.
Lincoln examined it. The frosting application suggested enthusiasm over technique. The cake itself had a slight lean that indicated uneven baking. But the smell was promising—vanilla and something citrus.
“We need to taste it.”
Marie was already reaching for a piece from the edge where it wouldn’t be noticed. She tasted, chewed thoughtfully, and delivered her verdict.
“It’s good but not pwofessional.”
“Agreed. Middle section.”
They continued. Finn’s surprise contribution—an apple crumble that Lincoln had not expected from his uncle—turned out to be exceptional.
“When did Gwandpa Finn start baking?” Marie asked, clearly as surprised as Lincoln.
“I don’t know.”
“Gwandma Charlie doesn’t bake good.” Marie’s tone was matter-of-fact. “Maybe Gwandpa Finn had to learn.”
