“Okay,” she says, more to herself than to me. “Spiny lobster. Firmer texture. Less sweet. All tail.”
Her eyes sharpen.
“Butter-poaching will soften it. Lemon will brighten it. Sherry still works. Ritz crumb topping stays—because I’m not surrendering the Ritz.”
“That’s brave,” I murmur.
She ignores me.
“It won’t be Boston Lobster Pie,” she says thoughtfully. “Not the original. But I can keep the flavor profile. Keep the spirit. Boston heart. Island body.”
She looks up at me then, chin lifted slightly.
“I adapt,” she says.
And there it is.
Not panic.
Not ego.
Competence.
I grin at her. “You absolutely do.”
She narrows her eyes, but there’s a spark there now.
“I didn’t take down a billionaire to lose to seafood.”
“No,” I agree. “That would be embarrassing.”
"Fine." Her shoulders square. "If the island wants to play games, I can play games."
She's scrolling again. Reading. Muttering to herself:
Boston Jane is back.
"Alright. I can work with this. I'm not making the dish I planned, but I can make a Boston-inspired version. A diplomatic lobster. A lobster with dual citizenship."
"Look at you," I say. "Adapting."
"Don't get excited. I'm still furious at it."
But she's already tying her hair up tighter, rolling the thin straps of her dress back onto her shoulders where they belong, reaching for butter like she's gearing up for combat.
"Boston-inspired butter-poached Caribbean lobster withherbed Ritz crumbs," she announces, pulling out a cutting board. "Because I'm from Boston and I will die on the Ritz cracker hill."
"Herbed Ritz crumbs? Sounds ridiculous." I arch a brow.
"It's happening. Don't fight me."
"Wouldn't dream of it. I’m just… concerned for the lobster.”
“The lobster lost the right to dignity when it showed up with claws off.”
She's chopping garlic. Fast. Confident. The knife sounds steady against the board.
"The butter-poaching adds the richness the spiny lobster naturally lacks. The Ritz crumbs keep the Boston identity. Lemon and paprika stay. I'm adapting the technique, not abandoning the soul."
