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“She got tipsy on pinot noir and ate too much of her pesto angel hair with blackened chicken-- now, at the door to the room, she's regretting it. She feels nauseous from the wine, and she knows her breath is bad from the garlic. Tom doesn't seem to notice; he's calm and a little giddy and keeps passing a hand over her ass, up under her dress. She wants to feel sexy; but she just can't, not with the thought of her dinner or her certainty that she has pesto in her teeth. Italian places are romantic in theory, but the pasta and the garlic and the rich sauces and filling wines are not conducive to carrying the romance past dinner.”

“It could be any date night. Perhaps Tom takes her to Ray's in Ballard. They share a bottle of Chateau Ste. Michelle Dry Riesling, even though Tom is more of a negroni man. The wine goes well with her market halibut and the view of the bay. He has the filet mignon, and judging by the bite he offers her, it's exquisite. Or perhaps it's that Mexican place somewhere in Ravenna, operated out of an old house. The wall paint is chipping, but the air is sweet with the aroma of freshly cut tomatillos. They have margaritas and share chicken mole, with extra chips and fresh guacamole on the side. No matter where they go, it has been a long day, a bad day for Elle. She probably dropped a pie, or an angry customer yelled at Bonnie, or old milk ruined a batch of cake batter. She probably almost said no to Tom's spontaneous idea for a dinner date. As usual, though, she's glad she didn't. The crème brûlée or fried ice cream is reason enough-- let alone the way he makes the negativity melts away.”

“Her mother is like a lemon-drop candy: at first sweet and pleasing, but when you get close to her, the sugar dissolves, leaving something sour underneath. Such a contrast to Elle's father, who was more like caramel: smooth and sweet from first meeting until the end. Elle suspects her father loved his wife because she was a challenge; he had a knack for softening edges. And she made him think. Having been a corporate success, her father was always up for a debate. Yet he had a gentle side; he loved his wife and his daughter more than anything-- except maybe his garden.”

“There's satisfaction in knowing something so well-- and knowing someone so well. Like a recipe by heart, every step, every ingredient, every taste. So familiar that it feels a part of her, as soon as her fingers dip into flour or rich skin. Each knead like an argument, each release like a kiss, until something has been made out of practically nothing, a string of separate ingredients mixed together like a courtship until they make one whole, grown stronger by each trial, each compression under two palms.”