(Helen's POV)
I find the lamb shanks at the butcher on Meridian Street.
The same butcher Jason used to order from when we were married — I looked it up last night, cross-referencing the area with what I remembered of his habits, which are more consistent than most people's because Jason is a man who finds something that works and keeps it. Same butcher. Same cut. Same slow-braised recipe I made the first winter after Rose was born, when we were still in the honeymoon fog of new parenthood and hadn't yet discovered how different our lives were going to be.
He ate two portions that night and told me it was the best thing he'd ever tasted.
I'm counting on the fact that taste memory is longer than people think.
I spend the afternoon in the kitchen. Not because I love cooking — I don't, pa
