I used two thick cloth oven mitts to pull a hot baking sheet out of the oven and set it on the wooden trivet by the sink.

A dozen round chocolate chip cookies sizzled gently on the dark metal pan, filling the small room with a rich vanilla smell.

Grace walked into the kitchen with her finished drawing in both hands, her white socks sliding on the clean floor.

“Are those cool enough to eat yet?” she asked, leaning over the counter.

“Give them a couple of minutes or you’ll burn your tongue,” I said.

She didn’t wait two minutes.