Room for Dessert by Lynn Townsend
Sharon Geddes surveyed the kitchen table, hands on her hips, looking for all the world like an army quartermaster preparing for a long siege. Indeed, that was the fact. One husband, four sons, most of whom had failed brilliantly to learn the art of boiling water—Charlie, at least, had figured out both the Crock-Pot and the waffle iron, so he wasn’t quite as hopeless as his brothers or father—alone for a week.
Everything on the table was microwavable. Or boil-in-a-bag. Open a few cans, stir in a fry pan. She’d covered everything with color-coded post-it notes. Her men were set for a week at home. Alone.
“They’ll never eat this,” Sharon said. That was also fact. Perhaps the first day they’d try to make spaghetti. Maybe Charlie would whip up a few batches
