When Mika and I got back to my place, Dad had the Weber grill going by the front porch, and I could smell beef sizzling. Dad was making steak, and I was here for it. I didn’t grill out much myself, mostly because the process involved to get the charcoal going and super-hot was often impossible with a toddler around. Either I was interrupted a hundred times, or he was bound and determined to burn all the flesh off his arms by reaching into the coals. I could have gotten a gas grill, I knew, but it just wasn’t worth it, especially if the odds were good that Sawyer wouldn’t eat whatever I took the time to grill anyway. Better to stick with hot dogs, chicken nuggets, and Paw Patrol waffles for the next couple of years. Most days, I was just glad he really liked fruit.
Inside my kitchen, Lucil
