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The kitchen is truly Emma’s domain. While I struggle dicing the tomatoes as instructed on the cutting board, she rattles off seasonings, and it sounds like a foreign language to me. She tells me the names of each pan and utensil, and my mind scrambles to remember some of them. I detest feeling inept.

“When you are done,” Emma instructs, her back to me. “Place them in the pot.”

“Do you always make homemade marinara?” I ask, cutting two more times before ...