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there. When he moved out, he cooked at home maybe a dozen times a year, always keeping it as simple as he possibly could. Crystal enjoyed cooking a little, so she made the meals when they weren’t eating out or taking in. Since he’d been living on his own again, he’d done little more than toss some pasta with olive oil on occasion.
    Now, though, that was going to change. He’d stopped at a local supermarket on the way to Treetops to buy the ingredients necessary to make one of his mother’s classic dishes. He’d eaten it so often growing up that he knew the components by heart. He’d seen his mother prepare it numerous times.
What made the dish so delicious was its simplicity, a point that Mom had reinforced every time someone complimented her on it. How hard could it be for him to prepare this for her?
    He could do this one on a stovetop, which was important, since her apartment only had those two open-coil burners to work with. He bought the necessary groceries and drove out of the supermarket parking lot toward Treetops. That was when he remembered that his mother no longer owned any cooking tools. A quick stop at Bed, Bath & Beyond for a skillet, some tongs, and an inexpensive chef’s knife addressed that.
    Laden with packages, he simply smiled at Keisha as he entered, choosing not to engage in their traditional faux flirting today. He didn’t even stop for a visitor’s pass. The staff certainly knew who he was by now. Some of them probably even thought that he lived here, though of course he was at least twenty-five years younger than the youngest resident. He used a free knuckle to knock on the door of his mother’s apartment, so caught up in his mission that he didn’t anticipate the sudden dread he felt at wondering who she would be when she answered.
    Fortunately, the woman that received him today was the gentle, smiling one. “Warren, honey, how are you? Do you want some tea? I was just about to make some.”
    Warren kissed his mother on the cheek and put the bags down on the floor near the cooktop. “Maybe later, Mom. Hey, I’ve decided to make us lunch. I
thought I’d try my hand at making your Chicken Margaret. Sound good to you?”
    â€œChicken Margaret,” Mom said wistfully. The expression on her face seemed a mix of confusion and melancholy. Warren had anticipated the former, but not the latter. He certainly hoped he wasn’t going to wind up upsetting her with this. It was so difficult to know what her triggers were now.
    â€œDo you think you could talk me through it?”
    Mom moved to the couch and sat slowly. “I’m not sure I remember.”
    Warren started pulling groceries from one of the bags, placing them on the dinette table across from the cooktop. “Of course you do, Mom. You could probably make this thing blindfolded. I have chicken cutlets, rice flour, cake flour, lemons, olives, plum tomatoes.” He reached for a smaller bag inside the Bed, Bath & Beyond bag. “I have vodka. You always said that Smirnoff was best for this, right?”
    A tick of recognition showed in his mother’s eyes. “Smirnoff is best. The expensive vodkas don’t taste the same.”
    Warren toasted his mother with the vodka bottle, delighted that she’d engaged with this at least a little bit. Maybe he’d be able to pull her toward this gradually. He pulled out the rest of the ingredients before unpacking the skillet and utensils.
    â€œYou don’t have to cook for me, honey. Don’t you need to get back to work? Isn’t your boss going to be upset that you’re taking this much time away from the office?”
    Warren stopped pulling items from the bags and
closed his eyes. Did he really think that every problem was going to go away instantly because he bought some food? “Mom, I don’t . . . Don’t worry about my boss. We’re making Chicken Margaret now, and that’s