A pot of stew.
I’d come home at seven that evening with the taste of a vending-machine pastry still in my mouth and my feet aching from a long pharmacy line, where I’d waited to pick up my mother-in-law’s blood pressure medication.
I hadn’t even gotten my hand off the doorknob before the smell hit me — scorched meat, thick and acrid.
In the kitchen, Marlene stood against the counter scrolling loud videos on her phone while black smoke rolled off my Dutch oven.
“Marlene, the bottom’s completely burned,” I said, dropping my bag and lunging for the burner.
“Let me start it over for you.”
She didn’t look up.
“Oh, you don’t like my cooking?
I only worry that takeout will upset that delicate stomach of yours.”
“My stomach only hurts,” I muttered, wiping soot from the range, “because of the stress in this house.”