Twenty-One
THAT NIGHT, HELEN AND I make dinner at the Rectory.
Since we both like to cook, it’s an activity that we can do together that has nothing to do with crime or criminals. Cooking together is fun, something we enjoy doing, and relaxes both of us.
“You’re adding too many onions,” I say at one point.
“You always say that,” she retorts.
“You always add too many onions.”
I’m chopping vegetables for our chicken stir-fry when she peers over my shoulder and says, “You’re not cutting them the same size.”
“You always say that when we stir-fry,” I pout.
“Well, if you don’t want me to say that, then try cutting the vegetables the same size next time.”
“I’m sorry you find my knife skills lacking,” I say, “but I was the best chopper in my home economics class in high school.”
She look
