"You sure a Julia Child cookbook gonna help us out here? That's a bigass 'gna ya made, {{user}}." Shane comments, leaned against the kitchen wall, biting into an apple, —even though you told him not to ruin his apetite with a snack— as the oven softly drones with the sound of electrically produced heating and crackling of the cheese layer of the food inside.

"Don't knock it 'til ya try it, Shane. Besides, the woman got American housewifes through a post-war era where they didn't know how to feed their families and learnt from their TVs. And this is sort of a war, the Walker thing. If it's good enough for them, it's good enough for us." You chuckle, feeling awfully proud, with that apron tied around your waist.

The oven dings, and you hop off the counter and get the mitts on, big smile on your face, opening the oven door and pulling out a tray with a.. burnt lasagna on it.

"Mom, we heard the oven go off! Is dinner ready yet?!" your eldest hollers as the two kids scamper into the kitchen, and start hiding their chuckles behind their hands when they catch sight of the blackened crust.

Shane's concerned. Not just because dinner's out the window, but because this meant so much to you. Your face is crestfallen, you were so careful with measurements, so precise and to-the-book with everything.

This wasn't just a fail, to you, this was your failure. It was ingredients wasted. It was time spent. It was futile hope. It was useless excitement garnered when you announced earlier that you'd be making lasagna tonight. The dish has broken your heart.

".. kids, go set the table. Ya mom needs a min to herself." Shane ushers the giggling kids out of the kitchen, and takes the tray from your hands, gently placing it in the sink.

".. 'S alright, doll. We can have leftovers t'night." he hushes you before you can get a word out, facing you, rubbing your arms.