sourdough

Elizabeth Moore had dinner on the table at 5pm, like she did every other weeknight. That night's creation was a new recipe torn from the pages of the latest edition of Better Homes and Gardens. The Best Pot Roast You Will Ever Have, the article claimed. Elizabeth bought a chuck roast, potatoes, celery, and carrots the night before. She set the chuck in a bag of mysterious but delicious juices so it would be at its most flavorful. When the dish hit the table, a cloud of fragrant steam created a fat plume of smoke in the cool air. Her husband, Roger, who was wearing a shirt one size too small, evidenced by the buttons fighting for their life against the weak seems, sat at the end of the table, fork and knife in either hand. 

"I think she should do ballet," Elizabeth said, slicing down into the meat with her body weight. Flesh peeled away from the bone, revealing a small circle of pink giving way to crispy edges. She didn't particularly like pot roast, but Roger told her years ago, when they were first going steady, that he loved pot roast. Apparently, his mother had been an excellent cook. A fact that Elizabeth, despite her best efforts, couldn't forget.

"No one in this family is a dancer." Roger laughed, pushing his plate toward his wife. She plopped two juicy pieces onto fine China and ladled a few vegetables on the top. The China was a gift from Roger's side of the family.

Elizabeth's nose scrunched up. "I suppose she does have short legs. Not really dancer legs." She wasn't going to say it was Roger's fault.

Which it was.

"Jimmy was saying Irene really likes that astronomy camp. Could be worth looking into." Roger plunged his fork into the meaty center, sliced with the knife waiting patiently in his left hand. Satisfied with the size of the piece, he wasted no time devouring it. Two chomps and one large gulp later, the meat was gone.

"I thought she had to pass an AP course to get into it?"

"She did."

"She did?"

"She did. And it's not like Irene is any smarter than our child."

Elizabeth spooned out a portion of vegetables onto her plate. As she settled into her chair, Roger gestured he wanted another slice of meat. She obliged, cutting a piece that was thicker than the first.

"I heard that a painting camp or music camp could be very beneficial for the brain. You know, that creatively minded people can just do more. Ricky, Donna's son, just did one." Elizabeth said, taking her first bite of warm potato. She noted it had too much salt. She would need to adjust that for next time.

"You really want her to live in a shoebox, fighting for her life over art?" Roger laughed between bites.

"He sounds happy. Last I talked to Donna." Elizabeth cut her vegetables into tiny pieces. They were so small they turned to mush.

"Happiness doesn't pay for electricity." Roger never subscribed to the word "happy." In Roger's mind, too often, people use happiness as a way in or out of things. A way to leave a job if someone wasn't happy with what they were doing. Doing something reckless if it provided momentary bliss from reality. Happiness was a crutch. According to Roger, the only thing people should make decisions on should be based on money. Because money kept the lights on. Money brought food to the table. Cash puts a roof over their head. 

"Painting has made me happy," exclaimed Elizabeth, passion coloring her voice.

"Yes. And you're very good at it. But you also have the common sense to know hobbies don't pay the bills." Roger's plate was empty, save for a ring of juice that hugged the edges. "Do we have bread?"

Elizabeth nodded, stood from her chair, and padded toward the kitchen. She brought back one slice of bread. Sourdough she had made from scratch. Another of Roger's favorites. Twelve hours of labor later – after kneading, pounding, and measuring everything in painstaking increments – he snatched the delicate bread from her, mopping up every last drop of liquid before plopping it into his insatiable mouth. No time at all to taste those intricate fibers she worked so hard to get right.

"I think we will tour schools early. Scope out their programs. See who offers advanced science and math, then we can decide from there." Roger slipped a hand around Elizabeth's waist, pulling her into his lap. She winced, her hand flying down to between her legs.

"Still hurts?" Roger asked.

"It's been months. I thought it would go away by now."

"The doctor said it may take a while."

"Maybe the extra stitch was a mis–"

"Everyone does it. You'll be fine." He put a comforting hand on her leg.

"I think I need to see the doctor."

"Elizabeth."

"Roger."

"You told the doctor you wanted this."

Elizabeth wished she had had the moxie to say no. But she didn't want to disappoint anyone, especially Roger. It would've been challenging to say no to her husband in a room of six people. Six men, to be precise.

"Anyway. I have five tours set up next week, one with the conservatory too."

"Roger!"

"What?! I'm excited."

Elizabeth pushed her way up from his lap. "Don't you think she should have a say?"

"Let's ask her." Roger's eyes went to the seat in the middle of the table, where June

had been resting, with no hint of agitation, for the entirety of the dinner. But as Roger's and June's eyes locked, she screamed, rattling the toy in her left hand. June kicked off the blue blanket that was laid across her high chair.

"I think she's hungry," Roger said, looking at Elizabeth.

Elizabeth grabbed her plate of mush and slid it toward June. She picked up the silver spoon, which his mother passed down to Elizabeth on her and Roger's wedding day, and filled it with brown mush. June's green eyes sparkled at the sight of her mother. But all Elizabeth felt when looking at June was disappointment. 

"Open up, sweetie."