“If I’m going to get yelled at, I would’ve done it while on the phone, with you on speaker, and me making myself buttermilk pancakes from scratch,” I say right to Max’s face, her berry-colored hair twisting in giant beach waves that make her look like she belongs on the red carpet instead of here with me, in my home.
Max waggles a finger at me. “Yeah, like you know how to make anything from scratch instead of out of a jar.”
“If it’s in a jar, it means it’s food,” I fume, waving my hands around. “Do you make pasta with the dough and water and all that? No! You get it from a box like everyone else. Take off that chef’s hat; you don’t deserve it.” I point to a spot over her head, stabbing the air with my finger. I lean my head back, blinking at the ceiling, putting my hands on my hips so I
