“It’s too warm.”
“It’s too warm.” Nana looks over at me, her worn and tattooed hand hovering above the pie.
“But I want to eat some now.” I don’t mean for them to, but the words wiggle out as a whine, making me sound like the whimpering child she taught this recipe to twenty years ago. Despite my juvenile attitude, Nana just smiles and shakes her head before herding me into the backyard.
In Search of a Story 