"Tighter," she demands. "I'm not made of glass."
I chuckle and tighten my arms around her waist, pulling her back into me. She tosses the spoon she'd been holding on the counter and leans back, tipping her head up and smiling. I kiss her on the tip of her nose and murmur, "The food is going to burn."
She laughs, the bright rich sound hitting me straight in the heart and then heading down to my groin. "When have I ever not burnt the food?"
She has a point. She's been practicing more, deciding that she wants a more conventional upbringing for our son, one where we sit down and eat meals together. Usually I end up taking over and finishing for her when she gets frustrated. I've told her that success in the kitchen isn't instant. She's never had consistent access to the utilities we do here; a fridge, a stove and consistent electricity. We enjoy our privileges, but we don't take them for granted.