Desserts

It started with burnt toast. That kind of morning. Not catastrophic, just… bad-angled. The coffee didn’t help. The floor was cold. I scraped the toast …

The oven was already warm.I wasn’t planning to bake. I’d just finished heating leftover soup (the pea one Mae hates), and the kitchen smelled like …

The sun was doing that thing where it pours through the kitchen window like it forgives you. I hadn’t baked in weeks. Not really. Not …

It started with the butter. The way it smelled when I melted it—low and slow, almost too long. That warm-sweet-fat thing that settles in the …

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 …