I burn my hand pulling a tray out of the oven. Metal heated to four hundred degrees burned right through the cute dish towel I found at a boutique that says, My safeword is takeout.
“s**t!” I suck on my thumb with a plaintive sound.
Avery gives me a completely unsympathetic snort. “I’ll do it.”
She uses an oven mitt—a plain, utilitarian blue oven mitt that seems to protect her just fine, because she manages to put the tray on the stove without almost dropping it.
“I bow to your greatness, Martha Stewart,” I say, handing her a serving spoon.
We spent the afternoon carving pumpkins. Avery made a traditional jack-o-lantern face. I applied my Smith College art school education to sculpting a p***s out of a large orange fruit. And then we cleaned off the seeds, added plenty of butter and s
