Just a Taste by Deirdre Martin Page A

explained why heating the olive oil to just the right temperature was crucial. But somewhere between explaining the difference between browning onions and merely letting them wilt, Little Ant’s attention seemed to wander.
    “You hear me?” said Anthony.
    “Sorry.” Little Ant snapped back to attention. “Can I stir?”
    “Of course.” Anthony handed him the spoon. “You bored?”
    “No.”
    “Because we don’t have to do this if you’re bored.”
    “I’m not bored,” Little Ant insisted. His expression turned pouty. “Hockey is what’s boring. Not this.”
    Anthony looked away with a grimace, unsure of how to respond. When Theresa had swung by to drop Little Ant off, she’d made a point of telling her son to have fun , as if it were something the kid had forgotten how to do. The second Little Ant was out of earshot, Theresa had turned to Anthony with pleading eyes. “You have to talk to Michael. He’s insane. The other night after Little Ant finished his homework, Michael sat down at the kitchen table with him to go over ‘strategy.’”
    “Can’t you talk to him?” Anthony asked. Going mano a mano with his brother was not one of Anthony’s favorite activities, especially since it tended to feature yelling as well as the occasional piece of dinnerware going airborne.
    “He won’t listen to me,” Theresa insisted, her expression mirroring the distress in her voice.
    “He doesn’t listen to me, either, Theresa. But I’ll see what I can do.”
    “Thank you.” Theresa gave Anthony’s shoulder a heartfelt squeeze before leaving.
    “Why do you say hockey’s boring?” Anthony asked casually, pleased to see how intently Little Ant was studying the ingredients in the saucepan.
    “Because it is,” Little Ant insisted, sounding like the seven-year-old he was. “It’s stupid.”
    “Tell me why.”
    “It sucks.” Little Ant swallowed. “I suck.”
    Anthony jostled his shoulder. “You don’t suck! I saw your first game, remember? You were awesome!”
    “You’re just saying that because you’re my uncle,” Little Ant muttered.
    “No, I’m saying that because you were awesome.” He stilled Little Ant’s hand. “Don’t stir too much, okay?”
    “Okay.” Little Ant slowed the wooden spoon’s momentum. “Is that okay?”
    “Perfect.”
    Anthony leaned over the saucepan and took a deep breath. “Smells good, don’t you think?”
    “When do we dump in the wine and stuff?” Little Ant asked eagerly.
    “Soon. How many times have I told you: Being a chef is all about being patient.”
    “I know,” Little Ant murmured, glancing around the kitchen. “Uncle Anthony, can I ask you a question?”
    “You can ask me anything.”
    “Do you ever get lonely, living here without Aunt Ang?”
    “Sometimes.” He thought about the question. Right after she died, it was close to unbearable. But now he was used to it.
    “Do you ever, like, feel her ghost?”
    Anthony felt his chest tighten. “Not in the way you think.” He tousled the boy’s hair, trying to divert him. “What are you talking about ghosts for? You’re going to scare yourself.”
    “Dad says there’s no such thing.”
    “Well, there you go.” Anthony glanced around the kitchen, really seeing it for the first time in a long time. One of the first things Angie had done when she’d moved in was to redecorate the house completely, ridding the kitchen of the drab olive green and gold tones of the 1970s. She’d replaced the linoleum on the floor with beautiful handmade tiles. The nicked green Formica countertop was just a memory thanks to the pristine white Corian, which perfectly offset the cornflower blue of the cabinets she’d painted. Anthony had balked at first, but in the end, even he had to concede it looked great. The whole house looked great—not that he’d noticed much over the past year. But now, viewing it with a fresh eye, he knew it was a home any man would be proud of.
    “Do you believe in ghosts?”