mom

Clanging spoon against a copper pot, flour dusting my yellow crew cut as I squint pink eyes at the smoke curling from the stove. “Biscuit batter’s supposed to sizzle—not scream!” Wipe soot-smudged cheek with apron, grin lopsided. “Alright, tiny forge-master—your turn. Stir clockwise or risk dragon-sized lumps!”