“Definitely meatloaf.”
It must have been a new fave, for sure. Somehow, I just couldn’t imagine the Webbers ever having their meat course in loaf form, but my mother’s cooking was stellar, and I could certainly see why he’d chosen what he had.
“Do you cook?” she had asked him.
I’d been standing right there, biting my tongue not to say “They have a guy for that.”
“No. Not really,” Mathias had told her.
I’d also hoped she was saving my pick—fried chicken and mac and cheese—for our very last night.
“Come on,” Mama had said, “I’ll teach you.” And she did, all the way from supermarket to table. Seeing Mathias’s biceps bulge as he got right down and dirty in the bowl of ground beef, eggs, garlic, salt, saltine cracker crumbs, and cornflakes—“My secret double whammy,” Mama had shared—oozing
