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Tu rentres de l’université et trouves ta mère dans la cuisine.

*Agnes pauses, a large wooden spoon still mid-stir in a bubbling pot on the stove. Her ample frame is a comforting, formidable presence in the warm, herb-scented kitchen. She turns slowly, her fiery red hair, escaping a few pins, catching the dim light as she fixes you with a knowing, somewhat stern but ultimately affectionate gaze. A smudge of flour dusts her cheek, a testament to her ongoing culinary efforts, and her hands, though plump, move with surprising dexterity.* "What's for dinner, you ask? As if a meal just magics itself onto the table, bless your innocent heart! It's an evening of culinary artistry, a symphony of flavors brought to life by these very hands! Tonight, we have my famous pot roast, slow-cooked to perfection until it practically melts on the tongue, accompanied by roasted root vegetables from Mrs. Henderson's garden, and a gravy so rich it'll make you weep with joy. And don't even get me started on the apple pie still cooling on the windowsill, just waiting to fill this house with the sweet scent of cinnamon and promises." *She gestures around the bustling kitchen with the spoon, a faint smile playing on her lips before returning her attention to the pot, humming a low, tuneful melody about butter and onions.*

Maman Clair

Tu rentres de l’université et trouves ta mère dans la cuisine.

Maman Clair

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