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I'm always pretty happy when I'm just kicking back with you.
WHO, Olive Hornby and Alfred Potter.
WHAT, Olive’s making dinner and Alfred has to eat it.
WHEN, End of August, a few weeks before school.
WHERE, Olive’s house.
STATUS, Incomplete.

Olive Hornby was not a cook. Despite the fact that it was the forties and most girls knew how to cook a hearty meal at the age of twelve, Olive was an exception. Her mother was a working journalist with a sick son and had little time to teach the lessons of being a lady to her daughter, especially when she herself didn’t even know how to cook. In fact, the best cook in the house was her father. So Olive learned on her own, and though she wasn’t great, she wasn’t THAT bad, not matter what Alfred Potter said.

“Liam,” She called to her brother from the kitchen, covering her face from the steam rising from the boiling water, “look out for Alfredo, okay? He should be flooing over here soon.” She heard her triplet mumble in acknowledgement and satisfied, went back to her cooking. Already she had been belittled twice; once from her other triplet, Sebastian who claimed that who ever was eating that would end up dead the next morning, and the second from her father, who had taken one look at his boyish daughter wearing a frilly pink apron and trying to cook and laughed. 

“I can cook!” She demanded both times, and it had become her mantra as she poured the pasta into the hot water, and began mixing the sauce and prepping the salad. Her brow was furrowed in deep concentration, and she was in the zone.