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My mother-in-law pressed a three-page birthday menu into my hands and told me twenty dishes had better be ready before her guests arrived. When I said one woman with one oven couldn’t possibly do it, my husband twisted his fist into my hair and pulled my head back. “Cook,” he said, “or get out.” I looked at him, then at his mother smiling behind him, and said, “All right.” Neither of them understood that I had already decided to take his second option.
Part 1 The kitchen clock read 12:14. Four hours and forty-six minutes until dinner. I remember that because I had become very good at...
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