“No pressure,” Meg said.
She unpacked the cooler with steady hands, arranging her creations on the plates Joey had prepared. The honey lemon butter went into a small ceramic dish. The soup into tasting cups. The focaccia, still slightly warm, onto a wooden board. And the pesto—her pesto, the recipe she’d been perfecting for twenty years—into a bowl beside a plate of sliced sourdough.
“Before we start,” she said, “I want to be clear. These are just ideas. Nothing’s decided. If it doesn’t work for the Shack, we don’t do it.”
“Noted,” Tyler said. “Now can we eat? Bernie’s been staring at that butter like it owes him money.”
“I’ve been appreciating the butter. There’s a difference.”
Meg took a breath. “Okay. Honey lemon butter first. It’s simple — local honey, lemons, good butter. Should work on toast, focaccia, even as a side for the grilled cheese.”
She watched as they spread butter on bread, took bites, chewed. Joey’s eyes closed. Bernie made a sound that might have been religious. Anna was already reaching for seconds.
“That,” Bernie said slowly, “is obscene. In the best possible way.”
“The lemon isn’t too much?” Meg asked.
“The lemon is perfect. Floral but not perfumey. Sweet but not too sweet.” Bernie took another bite. “This could absolutely work. Upcharge for fancy butter on the side. Tourists would lose their minds.”
“Agreed,” Tyler said. “It’s different but not weird. Accessible.”
Bernie snapped his fingers. “You know what this would go perfectly with? Those biscuits Fiona made. The Australian ones.”
Stella looked up from photographing. “The Anzacs?”
“We could put them on the menu,” Meg said, her eyes lighting up. “Stella’s biscuits. With the honey lemon butter.”
“They’re not my biscuits. They’re Nana’s recipe.”
“They’re yours now. You made them.” Meg was already thinking about presentation, pricing. “We’d need the recipe.”
“Joey will want to laminate it,” Stella said.
“I absolutely want to laminate it,” Joey confirmed. “I already tried the other night.”
From her booth, Margo laughed softly. Meg glanced over, but her grandmother just waved a hand. Keep going.
“Okay. Tomato basil soup next.”
The soup was a hit—fresh, bright, “like summer in a cup” according to Anna, who was not objective but also not wrong. Joey declared it “grilled cheese adjacent”and immediately started calculating portion sizes and pricing.
“Now,” Meg said. “The big one. Pesto.”
The table went quiet. Even Joey stopped fidgeting.
She’d thought about this for days. How to introduce her pesto without threatening the sacred grilled cheese. The answer, she’d decided, was options.
“Two ways,” she explained, setting out the plates. “First, as a side. Bread with pesto, next to the regular grilled cheese. Second—” She pulled out her final creation, wrapped carefully in parchment. “The pesto grilled cheese.”
She unwrapped it. Golden bread, melted cheese visible at the edges, and underneath—a thin layer of bright green pesto, just enough to add flavor without overwhelming.
“It’s not a replacement,” she said quickly. “It’s a variation. For people who want something extra. The regular grilled cheese stays exactly the same.”
Nobody moved.
Meg felt Margo’s eyes on her from across the room.
“Well?” Her voice came out smaller than she intended. “Someone try it.”
