Tamar’s chin jutted forward. “Ima, you don’t get it. You don’t know. It has to look right, okay?”
“Tamar, I need to leave soon. Can I just show you what’s going on with supper?”
Marissa was wearing her comfortable Naot clogs that Tamar hated; a mitpachat was tied firmly on her head. She didn’t often take the 3 p.m. to 11 p.m. shift — afternoons weren’t her high-energy time — but once Lali compiled the weekly schedule for the NICU nurses, it usually wasn’t worth asking for changes.
Tamar shuffled into the kitchen. “Okay, you can show me,” she said in a not-very-gracious voice.
Marissa chose to ignore her tone. “So here’s the soup, I’m leaving it on a low simmer. And in the fridge, there’s a pan of chicken cutlets that needs to go in the oven about 40 minutes before you eat. Aim for six, okay? Bake them uncovered. And put the pan of potatoes underneath, the same time you put in the chicken.”
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