Chase
By the time Missy arrived, Allie had already reorganized half my kitchen.
Not officially.
She claimed she was only helping prepare dinner.
But the herbs were now arranged near the stove instead of hidden inside a cabinet, the vegetables had been separated by type, and the sad line of prepared meals in my refrigerator had been pushed to the bottom shelf where she believed they belonged.
I stood near the island slicing bread while she tasted the sauce.
“It needs salt,” I said.
“It does not.”
“You said that before tasting it.”
“I watched you add salt twice.”
“That was measured.”
“That was reckless.”
I reached for the container.
Allie moved it out of reach.
“You are not ruining dinner before your family arrives.”
“It is my house.”
“And yet nobody trusts you with seasoning
