Maybe she doesn’t need recipes. She’s alone with the yellow mixer and splintered wood spoons, the television off, her parents gone for the night. In chemistry she never misses a step; smoke flows scheduled from her beakers in elegant script. At ballet she leaps with pointed toes, rounds her elbows, lands when the other girls do. Now she lines ingredients on the counter like an army: tangerines, brown sugar, Triple Sec slinked and sipped from the liquor shelf. She thinks nothing comes naturally, but she’d like to be wrong. The measuring cup she lowers into the flour floats past the Big Dipper coming up. When she cracks the first egg, a jagged W appears like Cassiopeia in her butter-flecked hands.
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