Free Pretty in Ink by Lindsey Palmer

she’s now usually covered in baby spit-up or changing a diaper as we Skype, her talent remains for transforming the language of my recipes into poetry.

    “Ladies and . . . ladies,” announces Mimi, winking at Mark, our brilliant creative director and the only man on staff. She’s called us all to the conference room. “I want to introduce the brilliant Victoria. Victoria began her career at Yummy Weekly, where she covered snacking trends and kitchen gear with great skill and dedication, and then moved on to Starstruck, where she distinguished herself as one of the top reporters on celebrity diets and meal plans. I’m bringing her on deck as an extra hand to help us for the November relaunch, and I couldn’t be more thrilled. Please join me in welcoming our new co-executive editor.”
    “Yay!” yelps Victoria.
    “Yay!” echoes Laura, and she, Victoria, and Mimi embrace with a degree of dedication I’ve only previously seen on reality TV, usually when former friends-turned-foes reconcile (I’m ashamed I’ve seen enough of that trash to know this). I suppose since all three of them come from Starstruck, that is their world. Mimi opens one arm and pulls in a reluctant Mark, who is not the type for group hugging. I sense this will become problematic.
     
    At first I don’t notice anyone standing there, since I’ve got the food processer going and I’m singing my heart out to that cheesy new Helena Hope song: “We’d be lying in the sun, boy, I really thought we’d won. But, oh how I was wrong, how you strung me right along, told me I gotta be strong, left me with nothing but a song.”
    But when I wheel around and see Victoria in my door frame, her facial features contorted into what I suppose is an expression of amusement, I freeze. In one motion I flip off both my radio and the food processer.
    “I guess you didn’t hear my knocking,” she says. She’s violated the unspoken rule that no one comes up to my kitchen uninvited, and now she worsens the offense by entering the space before I grant her permission. She eyes a fresh batch of pistachio pesto. “Looks delicious.”
    I can’t resist the urge to feed—I hand her a spoon. “Here, try. It’s for the weeknight dinner series. Pesto orecchiette.”
    “Delectable,” she says. “I’d reduce the oil a bit, and maybe go with orzo or some other pasta people have actually heard of.” I make an effort to lift the corners of my mouth. “So, listen. I had a conversation with Mimi about our food coverage, and I wanted to relay the main points back to you.” I’m already fuming that a discussion of Hers ’ recipes happened in my absence, and Victoria ratchets up my rage by initiating a self-guided tour of my space, sniffing at a bag of basil, then squeezing an heirloom tomato. I wonder when she last washed her hands. “First off, from now on we want to limit recipe prep time to twenty-five minutes. No one has the time to spend hours slaving away in the kitchen.”
    I’m surprised to find I’m prepared for this argument: “The average American watches four hours of TV per day,” I say bitterly. “I think they can spend forty minutes now and then making dinner. A twenty-five-minute limit means we won’t be able to include braised meat or pies with homemade crusts or even some soups. What about for special events?”
    “I hear you,” says Victoria. “But Mimi’s point is, we should be giving our readers permission to spend holidays relaxing and hanging out with their loved ones instead of slaving over the stove like they’re repressed housewives from two generations ago. Especially in this day and age, when everyone is so busy and we all have so little quality time with our friends and family. Those complicated, labor-intensive recipes aren’t realistic for the life of your average busy mom.”
    This is all bullshit, of course; everyone has always been busy, and just because these days people would rather spend their free time scrolling