“So, what are we eating?”Maddox asks, already sniffing around like a bloodhound.
I roll my eyes.“Really?”
“What?I’m starving.”
“We are having pasta, herb roasted chicken, broccoli, and a spring mix salad.”
“Nice.”
“Wow, Mr.Lawrence, you seem to have your hands full.Can we help?”Amelia asks.
Thank Christ someone in this room was raised right.
I look at my son, who is currently inhaling cherry tomatoes like they’re oxygen.
“Actually,” I say pointedly, “I was going to ask Mads to set the table.”
He freezes mid-bite.
Amelia, bless her, grabs his arm.
“Sure thing!We can do that.”
They disappear toward the dining room while I get back to the stove.
I keep it simple, but good.
Olive oil.Fresh garlic.Shallots.Cherry tomatoes.Pine nuts.Chopped figs.A fistful of herbs from the little greenhouse out back.Splash of white wine.
Let it simmer.
Finish with butter.Pecorino romano.Toasted panko for crunch.
The thing about cooking isn’t the ingredients.
It’s care.
It’s timing.
And tonight, timing matters.
I’m not dropping that pasta until Kelly and Evan walk through that door.
I check the oven—herb roasted chicken quarters crisping just right.
Everything smells like home.
And that’s the point.
I don’t want Evan walking into some cold, sterile mansion where he feels like an accessory.
I want him walking into warmth.
Food.
Noise.
People who show up.
