A small man is alive in my oven. He’s in there with the pie. He’s rooting for it. An update on dessert is all I want but there he is, plumped up like a baked apple, giving me advice accompanied by small puffs of steam.
“More is possible now,” he says. “Some of it is awful. Not all of it.”
I quickly close the oven door. I get scared when he tells me that I too must learn to cook.
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