Meg smiled, scraping the garlic into the pan. The sizzle was perfect, the smell immediate and rich. This was her meditation—the kitchen, the process, the slowtransformation of raw ingredients into something nourishing.
“So explain to me again,” Anna said, abandoning the basil entirely, “why you never cook for the Shack if you can help it?”
“The Shack has a menu.”
“The Shack has five items. And one of them is just pickles.”
“Those pickles are beloved.”
“Those pickles come from a jar.”
“Beloved jarred pickles.” Meg tasted the onions. Perfect. She added a splash of cream, watching it swirl into the caramelized sweetness. “The Shack isn’t about elaborate food. It’s about consistency. Comfort. People knowing exactly what they’re going to get.”
“And yet people aren’t getting it anymore. Because something’s different and nobody can figure out what.”
Meg didn’t answer. She’d been thinking about that all week — the half-eaten sandwiches, Bernie’s careful non-answer, the slow afternoons that used to be packed.
“What if,” Anna said, leaning forward, “the Shack just needs... additions? Not replacements. Supplements. Things that complement the grilled cheese instead of competing with it.”
“I thought we agreed not to talk about this. Margo wouldn’t like it.”
“No, you said we couldn’t talk about it. That’s not the same.”
Meg turned off the burner, considering. The onion mixture was perfect—rich, sweet, savory. It would be incredible on focaccia. Or stirred into soup. Or as a base for a dozen other things.
“What are you making, anyway?” Anna asked.
“I don’t know yet. I just started with onions and garlic and figured I’d see where it went.”
“See, that’s what I’m talking about.” Anna pointed at her. “That instinct. That ‘I’ll just see where it goes’ thing. That’s what the Shack needs.”
“The Shack needs Margo’s grilled cheese to taste right again. Which it would, if Margo were making it.”
“But Margo’s painting. And she should be painting. She’s earned that.” Anna stood, came to look at what Meg had created. “Wow. That smells incredible. What is it, exactly? Even if you don’t know what you’re going to do with it.”
“Caramelized onion base. Could go a lot of directions.”
“What directions?”
Meg considered. “Soup. French onion, maybe, but lighter—a summer version. Or a spread, with goat cheese and herbs. Or a pizza topping, if we had the equipment, which we don’t.”
“What about something simpler? Something that could sit next to a grilled cheese and make people think ‘oh, I want that too’?”
“Like what?”
Anna’s eyes lit up. “What about that honey butteryou made for Luke’s birthday? The one with the lemon?”
“You remember that?”
“I remember eating half the jar with a spoon when no one was looking.”
Meg laughed. The honey lemon butter had definitely been good — sweet, floral, perfect on warm bread. Simple enough that even Joey might not object too strenuously.
“I could make that,” she said slowly. “And maybe a soup. Something that feels like the Shack but... more.”
“Yes! See? This is what I’m saying.” Anna grabbed her arm. “You’re an artist, Meg. Your medium is just edible.”
“You’ve said that before.”
