I move toward the standing mixer, throwing ingredients in, taking care to

measure with conviction. Cooking is one thing, but making is another; there is

no room for measuring mistakes. An extra tablespoon of sugar could ruin the

whole dish.

Karl grins, his voice cutting through the tension. “Don’t forget to breathe, Abby,”

he reminds me, shooting me a wink from across the table.

I let out a breath. “I’m breathing.”

“Yeah, sure,” he says, sliding the bowl of lemon zest toward me. “Everyone

knows that breathing involves keeping your chest perfectly still, your shoulders

stiff, your face red.”

Enter title…

help but chuckle. “Alright,

little while longer, zesting and

I expected, but I’m

the nutmeg—only to

scent of cumin. “What

eyes narrowing.

for the correct spice, but time is

fingers. “Maybe the labels got messed up.” I pick up

the jar, labeled ‘cinnamon’

rising. “Paprika in the cinnamon jar? What’s going

here?”

into

labeled ‘nutmeg’ and

to be the right

at the clock makes my heart

wasted more time hunting for spices than I would have liked,

struggle. Stifling

the mixture and get

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