Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82472 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82472 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 412(@200wpm)___ 330(@250wpm)___ 275(@300wpm)
“Shit, the cauliflower.” I get up and run inside. The smell of char hits me right away. “Oh my God, oh my God.” I grab the oven mitt, opening the oven.
“Mom’s here,” Gabe says, running to the front door.
She walks in the door just as the smoke detector goes off. “Oh, dear Christ, Kay, what the hell are you doing?” She grabs a broom out of the closet and positions herself beneath the smoke detector, using the broom to fan the smoke away. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” she chants while looking over at the kitchen in time to see me pulling a tray of charred, smoking cauliflower out of the oven.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! I’m so sorry! We went outside to do some kid yoga, and I totally forgot.” I try explaining while I walk with the pan to the sink, turning on the water and soaking the smoking remains of what was once cauliflower. The sizzling sound of water hitting a hot metal pan fills the quiet room, along with a burnt, smelly, steamy smoke that has the potential to set off the now silent smoke detector again.
“Oh, Auntie Kay, what are we going to eat now?” Rachel asks. She would have been the only one of us to attempt to eat one of my creations.
I slap my hands together. “Oh! I have some tofu we can cut up and—” Before I can even finish that sentence, Gabe and Lauren both yell a combined firm yet panicky, “No!” I glare at both of them.
“Okay, I’m going to change. Gabe, start your homework. Rachel, go start studying your spelling words. You”—Lauren points at me—“clean up this mess. I’ll find something to throw together for pasta.”
I groan. “I don’t have any gluten-free pasta here.” I walk up to the fridge while Lauren goes upstairs to change out of her ‘work clothes.’ When she comes back downstairs I am putting things in the dishwasher. “Oh, good news,” I inform her. “I found some rice, so I’ll throw whatever sauce you make on there. Yumm-O.”
She shakes her head, laughing at me as she starts prepping the veggies to go into whatever she is making. I go to the table where I study words with Rachel.
“Kay, set the table,” she calls out to me.
I walk over to see that she has done some pasta primavera and it looks delish, but I see the container of Parmesan cheese next to her. “I can’t eat that. You put cheese in it,” I complain to her.
“It’s okay,” she whispers to me. “I won’t turn you into the vegan police. We’ll pretend it never happened.” She serves up some pasta onto plates for the kids.
I open the freezer, squealing when I find a frozen meal. “Score. Look! Tofu ravioli! Saved!” I do a little dance on my way over to the microwave, raising my hands in the air and shaking my ass as I pop it in. “Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah!” I continue dancing till the microwave beeps.
I pull it out, peeling off the filmy plastic cover, and wave it under Lauren’s nose. “Smells so good, right?”
She nods, but I know she is totally lying. Throughout the meal, the kids tell her about their day. Rachel tells me that today someone threw up in class because someone else farted. Apparently, this is hilarious to her, since she is in stitches about it as she retells the story.
As soon as everyone finishes eating I round up all the dirty dishes looking at my sister, seeing her tired eyes. “I’ll clean up. You go give the kid a bath and do homework.”
I rinse and put all the dishes in the dishwasher while I clean up the kitchen and it almost looks like I didn’t burn anything today. Well, almost. The smell is still lingering. When I see Lauren go upstairs I take out a couple of candles, lighting them around the room, then dim the lights and put on some light jazz music.
When Lauren comes back downstairs, a full glass of a crisp, perfectly chilled white wine is waiting for her. “Aww, if you weren’t my sister—and I were into chicks—I’d make you my woman.” She grabs her glass and curls up on the couch with her feet under her.
“So, tell me about this boss of yours?” I prompt her as I sip my own wine.
“Oh, where do I start?” She closes her eyes. It’s like she is in a trance.
“Good-looking?” I ask, curious as to what has my sister going tick-tock like a bomb.
She nods her head and finishes off her glass of wine in one long gulp. She picks up the bottle, pulling the cork out with a pop, and pours herself another glass. “Too good-looking.”
“Fit or chunky?” I ask. I usually start off with little questions till we tackle the big things like penis size, full package size, does he hang left or right? Can you see it or is it flat?