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Mrs. H watched me like a hawk. “Well?”
I swallowed and set my fork down with exaggerated care. “Tastes like you fried up a bowl of oatmeal and called it dinner.”
She threw her head back and laughed, slapping the table. “Now you’re getting it! That’s exactly what it is.”
I snorted. “So you’re admitting that this is just porridge with a few extra steps?”
“Aye,” she said, grinning. “But it’sScottishporridge, and that makes it superior.”
I shook my head, laughing despite myself. For all her relentless teasing and questionable food choices, there was something easy about sitting in her warm, cluttered kitchen, surrounded by the smell of butter and onions. It felt like home, even though it wasn’t mine.
“Hey, I have an idea,” I said, leaning my elbows on the table. “Would you teach me how to cook?”
She froze, her spoon halfway to her mouth. She set it down slowly and folded her arms, squinting at me like I’d just sprouted a second head. “What the hell happened?”
I blinked. “What?”
“You, asking to learn how to cook? At your age?” She tilted her head, suspicion thick in her voice. “Did something happen? Did you almost poison yourself?”
I groaned. “No.”
She grinned. “Did you poison someone else?”
“No!”
Her eyes narrowed further. “Did you burn something?”
I hesitated.
Her grin turned downright wicked. “Oh, you did. Was it the kitchen? Did you blow the back of your house? Do tell. Inquiring minds and all . . .”
I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. “It wasn’t that bad—”
She sat back in her chair, smiling like she had just won the lottery. “Go on, lad. Tell me what culinary disaster led you to this moment of humility.”
“Imayhave . . .” I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. “ . . . set a lasagna on fire.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Mrs. H cackled.
Not just a laugh—a full-body, head-thrown-back, tears-in-her-eyes kind of laugh.
“Oh, lad,” she wheezed, clutching her side. “A lasagna? That’s just layers and an oven. How in God’s name did you manage to set it on fire?”
I crossed my arms. “I don’t know. I followed the recipe.”
She wiped at her eyes, still shaking with laughter. “Clearly, you didn’t!”
I scowled. “The cheese burned and then just . . . ignited. The whole kitchen was black with . . . well, shit. It was black until I used the extinguisher. Then it was kind of gray and gooey.”
She snorted. “You know you’re supposed to watch dishes you’re cooking, aye? Maybe lower the heat if things start looking a bit fiery?”
I groaned, slumping back in my chair. “Okay, yes, I get that now. Which is why I’m asking you for help. Will you teach me or not? I really want to be able to cook Elliot a proper meal, and as it stands, he’s afraid to let me order takeout.”
She grinned, wagging her spoon at me. “Oh, I’ll teach you, all right. But I’m never letting you live this down.”
I sighed. “Figured as much.”