The kitchen smelled like roasted peppers, tomato sauce and sizzling meat. I stood near the stove with my sleeves rolled to my forearms, balancing my phone between my shoulder and ear while stirring the pan carefully.
“No, mamá,” I said dryly. “You already told me that three times.”
“You always burn the sauce when you think you know better,” my mother replied sharply through the untraceable line. “Lower the heat.”
I adjusted the flame without argument.
“And don’t drown the chilaquiles completely. They’ll get soggy.”
“I remember.”
“You never remember,” she accused.
I almost responded when movement near the kitchen entrance caught my attention. Alice walked into the kitchen slowly, still half asleep.
An oversized dark jacket hung loosely off one shoulder while a pair of tiny shorts st
