I washed and cut the potatoes into chunks and dropped them into a pot of salted water with their skins left on and set them on the stove on a high flame. I always used a potato ricer on the cooked potatoes that would catch all the skins when they were pushed through. Then I opened the package of boneless, skinless chicken breasts, laid them on paper towels, and blotted them dry. I mixed two eggs in a soup plate with some milk and salt and pepper, and I put a cup of flour on another plate. I sliced a lemon and browned it in some olive oil and butter. Then I dredged the chicken breasts in flour, dipped them in the egg mix, and browned them all, putting them aside to rest as they were done. When we were ready to sit down I’d squeeze the juice of a whole lemon in my frying pan along with a big chunk of butter to make a sauce. Then the chicken would go back in the sauce with the lemon slices to warm it up and coat it all in lemony, buttery heaven. At the last moment, I’d drizzle it with honey and sprinkle minced chives from my garden over the top. Even my mother liked it. It was that good.

I flipped the album over and set the table in the kitchen, because we never used the dining room, except on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Besides, it was half covered with mail, mostly catalogs my mother refused to let me throw away. She had a black belt in shopping.

The grocery store flowers went into a glass vase in the center of the table. I used our newest place mats and paper napkins folded in triangles. The next challenge was finding four unchipped plates, and to my surprise, I did. When it was all put together, the table looked inviting. Not magazine worthy, but it had a wholesome charm.

By six, everything was ready. A fresh pitcher of iced tea stood on the counter, because of course we drank iced tea all year round. The peas were buttered, the chicken was sauced, and the potatoes were whipped into velvet ribbons. A Mrs. Smith’s frozen apple pie was bubbling away in the oven, and it was as domestic a scene as any woman ever set. All I needed was a golden retriever to star in a Martha Stewart tableau. The doorbell rang. On the way to answer it, I glanced at myself in the hall mirror to see that I had forgotten to put on lipstick or to brush my hair and thought, Oh, well, too late for vanity. I bit my lips to give them some color. Didn’t Scarlett O’Hara do that when Rhett showed up unexpectedly?

“Come in! Everything is ready! Did you boys wash your hands?”

“Yup,” Tyler said. “What’s that thmell?”

“Apple pie baking in the oven,” I said.