My aunt and I can't agree whether her red sauce tasted different when she used the old pot. I say she makes smaller batches now and lets them cook longer. She says the pot mattered and I am too educated to listen. Not seriously, mostly. I caught myself planning two batches with matching ingredients as if we were going to settle a family argument by Tuesday. The trouble is neither of us measures when we cook at her house, and the old pot is gone. I like having something to wonder about that doesn't need a price attached. Next time I'll stand beside her while she cooks instead of arriving when the food is ready.

A regular asked if I remembered the green chile potatoes from the cafe. I was ready for the usual question about whether I'd open another place, but he only wanted to say his mother used to order them. She's gone now. I felt embarrassed by how defensive I'd been before he'd even finished speaking. Then I was glad there was something from that time worth remembering besides the bills and the closing. I still don't want the cafe back. I do miss knowing which table somebody's mother liked. He bought his breakfast and left, and I found myself thinking about that corner table while I wiped down the cart.

The cold metal handle of the cart felt good for about three seconds this morning, before my fingers decided it was too cold to enjoy. By the end of service my forearms were hot from the griddle and I wanted that cold back. Funny range of temperatures for a person who barely moved ten feet. After cleaning I sat in the car with the window open and ate the burrito I'd kept for myself. I could feel how hungry I was after the first bite, not before. My thumbs were tender from wrapping, so I let the foil sit open on my lap. There was nobody waiting and no reason to fold it neatly. I stayed there until I'd finished the whole thing.