"I can cook," I protested weakly.
Sarah gave me a look of pure, devastating skepticism. "You make scrambled eggs. And sometimes burnt toast."
"The toast isn't always burnt."
"It's burnt… like, almost every time."
Emma pressed her lips together tightly, clearly suppressing a smile with great effort. "I could write down some simple recipes if you'd like. Beginner-friendly ones."
"We have books for cooking…" Sarah informed her solemnly. "Uncle C. never uses any of them. They just sit there."
"Traitor," I muttered into my water glass.
Emma laughed, a sound that I was starting to crave more than I wanted to admit. "Maybe we start with cornbread then. It's very forgiving. Almost impossible to mess up."
Sarah took another huge bite of cornbread and her eyes went wide with dramatic appreciation. "This is so good. Amazing. Why don't we ever have this at home, Uncle C?"
"Because I don't know how to make it."
"Ms. Reed could teach you."
"I'll add it to the list."
"What list?"
"The very long list of things I apparently need to improve about myself."
"That list is very long," Sarah agreed with grave solemnity. "Like, really really long."
Emma nearly choked on her water, coughing to cover her laughter.
The meal unfolded from there with an ease I hadn't expected and didn't deserve. Sarah chattered happily between enthusiastic bites, sharing random facts with the boundless enthusiasm only a six-year-old could sustain.
"Did you know frogs breathe through their skin?"
"I did not know that," Emma said, genuinely interested.
"It's called..." Sarah scrunched up her face, struggling to remember the word. "Cut… something res…respiration."
"Cutaneous respiration," Emma supplied helpfully.
"Yes! It means they breathe through their whole body, not just their mouths. That is so weird."
"Very weird," I agreed, accepting the cornbread basket that Emma passed across to me. Our fingers brushed briefly. "Useful adaptation, though."
"Ms. Reed says lots of animals have really weird special talents. Like how bees do dances to talk to each other." Sarah looked at me with sudden curiosity. "Do your bees dance, Uncle C?"
"They do, actually. It's called a waggle dance. They use it to tell other bees exactly where to find the best flowers."
"Can you understand what they're saying when they dance?"
"Not really. I just watch them and pretend I know what they're communicating."
Emma smiled warmly at me. "What do you think they're usually saying?"
"Mostly complaints about the weather, I imagine. Bees are very picky about weather conditions."
Sarah giggled delightedly. Emma's eyes crinkled with genuine amusement.
