A loud, insane,flour-on-the-counter, someone-is-definitely-going-to-spill-something way.
Caleb is standing on his stool, captaining a ship. Eliza has declared herself “Sauce Supervisor,” which mostly involves stirring aggressively and narrating her decisions.
“It needs more red,” she says seriously.
“That’s not how cooking works,” Marshall tells her.
“It is if you believe,” Wyatt says, deadpan.
Marshall looks betrayed. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
Wyatt doesn’t even look up from draining the pasta. “I’m on the side of joy.”
Abilene laughs, that soft bell sound that makes my chest do stupid things, and reaches for a clean spoon. “Let’s taste before we panic.”
Caleb gasps. “Is this the tasting part?”
“Yes,” she says solemnly. “Very important.”
He tastes. Freezes. Then grins so hard I worry about facial strain. “It’samazing.”
Eliza tastes too. “It tastes like hugs.”
Wyatt blinks. “That’s… surprisingly accurate.”
Marshall mutters, “I don’t cook with emotions.”
“Yet,” Abilene says gently, handing him a plate.
When we finally sit down, it’s noisy immediately. Chairs scrape. Forks clatter. Someone’s elbow knocks into mine.
I wouldn’t change a single thing.
“Daddy,” Caleb says around a mouthful of pasta, “can we do this every night?”
“Eat dinner?” I ask.
“No,” Eliza corrects. “Like this.”
I glance around the table, at Wyatt smiling faintly, at Marshall pretending he’s not amused, at Abilene watching the kids joyfully.
“Yeah,” I say. “I think we can do that.”
She meets my eyes. Bright, unsure, and hopeful emotions all tangle together.
Conversation overlaps after that.
Wyatt tells a story about a horse that absolutely should not have fit through a gate but somehow did. Marshall counters with a dry correction. The kids argue over whether honey belongs on garlic bread.
“It does,” Eliza insists.
“It’s weird,” Caleb says.
“It’s adventurous,” she counters.
Abilene lifts her glass. “To adventurous.”
“To adventurous,” Wyatt echoes.
