She mixed and measured, weighed and watched, stirred and sprinkled, steeped and sliced.
She’d gotten every item ready. She made sure she had all the tools. She kept the temperature exact.
This one was going to come out just right.
She double checked each line. She’d compared reviews for different versions of the recipe, to ensure this one worked fine.
The kitchen fan hummed.
Her phone rang.
The house smelled of burnt garlic. She was deafened by the smoke alarm.
The roast was toast.
She could have cried. …
She should have known that her ever-hungry teenage son would devour it as is, as soon as he sat down.