In the kitchen, Twyla and Jayson find Charlie standing over a smoky sink, shaking his head at cinder melded to the burnt pan. Thick, black honey-glazed whorls rise from the oven door. Jayson rushes to the smoke detector and silences the piercing alarm. Coughing and covering her nose, Twyla hastens to the window, slides it open at once, closing it when a chilly blast chucks snow in her face and across the room.
“I prefer my meat well-done but not incinerated,” Charlie quips with his gaze fixed on the charcoaled ham. “Humpf, I deserve this for turning the temperature to 450 instead of 350 degrees. s**t happens,” he says with a quiet chuckle and strolls to the refrigerator. “Cornish hen for supper,” he declares, removing four baby chickens from the freezer, setting them on the counter, and p
