Historically, it was Wendy who cooked rigatoni with summer squash and breadcrumbs, but now it was Mel at the helm, salting and peppering to taste, even though these days, Wendy couldn’t taste much. Mel was sixty-six and picking up the spatula for the first time. He was looking up recipes on his smartphone and further looking up unfamiliar words like broil and sauté.

Wendy used to cook for four, a habit she never broke even after Dale and Bentley flew the coop. She would take the extras next door for Bill and Dianne, so Mel continued the tradition and flirted with ordering a chef’s cap.

As it turned out, Mel preferred the sizzle of the skillet to the low hum of the TV. He had fun blending chickpeas and chopping basil. He liked the alchemy, the surprises, the uncertainty. He liked creating something from some things. The role reversal was in fact OK. Wendy set the table and talked with her sister on the phone in the study, the curly cord connecting the two in a way Wendy hadn’t found time for in the past and was appreciating more and more. They would recount their days and sprinkle in memories of growing up in that old house on Shadybrook until Mel popped his head in to let her know the meal was ready. Wendy smiled and ate the roasted chicken her man had lovingly prepared. She felt old in a good way. She was being taken care of before she had to ask for it outright and enjoying it in a way she couldn’t have anticipated. Mel seemed like he was growing younger. They were both transcending, becoming more themselves.

On Sundays, Mel took to making pies, criss-crossing the crust, a loving lattice, against fresh, sugared fruit. He tried more and more combinations. They kept getting better.