Desserts

The lemon didn’t even hit the counter yet. I smelled it and — that was it.It was her again. Mae. Nine years old. Flour on …

The oven door was already open. I don’t remember opening it. It was cold again—radiator groaning like it had feelings, and the dog tracking salt …

The crust was too cold and my hands were too warm. The kind of mismatch that happens when you’re not really present. I’d meant to …

It was too bright in the kitchen. Cold sun through the window that made everything look cleaner than it was. I hadn’t meant to cook—I’d …

It started with the bananas.Too ripe. Too many. Piling up like a to-do list I was avoiding. I wasn’t planning to make pudding.But there was …

I wasn’t trying to be festive. There was no birthday, no holiday, no reason to pull out cookie cutters shaped like mittens and moons. I …

It wasn’t warm enough for strawberries. Not really. Not the kind you’d eat barefoot in the yard with juice dripping down your wrist. But they …

I hadn’t meant to bake. I really hadn’t. But the apples on the counter were going soft in that way that starts to feel personal.It …

The house was quiet, but not the peaceful kind—more like the kind that creeps in after a hard week and makes you stare too long …

The apples were bruised. Not badly—just soft around the edges, like something that used to be crisp but got tired.Mae had left a note on …