It’s 3:45 on a Thursday afternoon and I am skidding frantically across my kitchen floor.
Various splotches of balsamic vinegar drip down my dress in an undignified pattern, my hair Medusas itself into wild coils and I Can’t. Find. The. Salt!
I have overbooked myself once again and am simultaneously simmering gyro meat in one pan, chicken in another and grating cucumbers.
I have exactly 90 minutes to deliver the meal I’ve volunteered to make, but my doorbell will ring in exactly 15 minutes because I also have agreed to host a meeting.
Luckily, I have a secret weapon (at least until Saturday when she will rudely pack her bags and move to Minneapolis).
My daughter Molly, who enlisted her friend Kinan to help, already had whipped up and grilled 28 pitas and baked three pies for the occasion.
Now, I can hear her moving calmly through the kitchen, chopping tomatoes, packing up pies and labeling various food items.
I conduct my meeting and, with 20 minutes to spare, careen into the Dollar Store parking lot to grab some disposable containers.
Molly helps me fill them up and load them into the car. With her balancing pies precariously on her lap and me driving with a Tupperware of tzatziki sauce under my left foot, we come screeching into our appointed spot just as the clock strikes (digitally registers) 5:15.
But, really, what am I going to do without her again?