She surveys the shards of onion scattered across her kitchen counter, the litter of black pepper that missed its mark, a garlic press lying spent, potholders covered in a dusty veil of flour, a mushroom carton relieved of contents, puckered lemon halves, jars of dried basil and rosemary sticky with fingerprints, a half bottle of wine waiting quietly in the corner.
She pulls from the stove a skillet of golden chicken thinly crusted, swimming in a glistening glaze of mushrooms, artichokes, capers, and wine.
“So . . . what’s your point?” she asks.