Mr. and Ms. Richards did not have high expectations for their 30th anniversary. For one thing, there was that new global pandemic thing that had gripped its claws around the world. The resulting social distancing measures and curfew ruined any plans of having their traditional dinner at Forks and Knives down the street. For another, their old Volvo, having survived almost ten years acting dutifully as a faithful and reliable servant, had begun squealing like a banshee at the slightest touch on the gas pedal. Any romantic road trip outings that they might happen to dream up were a no-go as far as noise tolerance levels were concerned. And so, when their car shop notified them that the nearest open availability for fixings happened to fall on the very date in question, they took it in stride. Maybe some grease and wrenches were just what they needed. They snapped up their keys and homemade masks in their hands, told their children to lock the front door, and disappeared on their auto body date without the slightest idea of what was to pass over the next hour and a half while they were gone. This was not one of their best decisions. You see, Mr. and Ms. Richards had three daughters, and it’s never a good idea to leave three daughters alone for long. “It’s their anniversary,” Vivian said, as she colored in blue marker the outline of a mitochondria for her biology project. “We should do something nice for them. We totally failed Mother’s Day.” “I didn’t fail Mother’s Day,” Gabriela, the oldest at sixteen, called from her spot on the couch. “It’s not my fault you and Rory thought that Smithson’s Grapefruit All-Purpose Cleaner would be a good gift for Mom.” “I meant the royal ‘We’,” Vivian said. “I didn’t want to buy the cleaner either!” Rory was slouched down on the worn wooden floor by the family’s sofa, attempting to braid the tangled mess of her doll’s brown hair. Its official American Girl Doll name had long been forgotten, known instead to everybody and anybody as Lasagna as a result of one unfortunate family dinner that is best left unexplained. “Whatever,” Vivian said, now picking up the hot pink marker to start shading the ridges of an endoplasmic reticulum. “You don't really count anyways, since without my help, all you would have given her was some card with cheerios that you made during class.” “Hey!” Rory said. “Mom liked my card!” “Anyways,” Vivian said. “What I was trying to get at is that we should do something nice for them, you know, since everything has fallen through for today. Maybe we could make some spaghetti or something.” “I already want to put it out there that for whatever you are thinking of, I am not involved,” Gabriela said. “After the whole piñata thing from last December I’ve come to the conclusion that more often than not, trying to do good with you two will just end up doing bad.” “Oh come on, Gabby! That was one time, and the wall got patched up anyways,” Vivian said. “They would be super happy to see that we made something while they’re gone.” “Dad says that I’m the next Gordon Ramsey!” Rory said. “He calls me the PB&J Lord!” “As you see, Gabby, with such a world renowned chef on our team, there is no point in trying to resist.” “Fine,” said Gabriela. “I guess it´ll be worse if I just let the two of you try to do it alone. Maybe at least I´ll prevent some third-degree burns or something.” Since Gabriela was the tallest, she was the one elected to retrieve the old family recipe book that laid on the top of the shelf above the refrigerator. It was only ever brought out for Thanksgiving or Christmas, both times that the girls were shooed away from the kitchen, so the only reason they were aware of its hiding place was the fact that the fancy chocolate bars their parents sometimes splurged on happened to be tucked away in the same spot. Grasping it between her long, slim fingers, the emerald ring she never took off scratching against its cover, Gabriela set the book down on the cool kitchen countertop, immediately surrounded by her sisters. “This one looks nice!” said Vivian. “That one says that it takes at least four hours to press and fully marinate the tofu,” Gabriela said, flipping the page. “Let me see!” said Rory, who had begun an elbow war with Vivian over the best view. “Why are there so many desserts mixed in with these salads?” Vivian said. “I need to have a talk with Dad later about reorganizing the book into sections. This is just madness!” “Blueberry pie! Blueberry pie!” chanted Rory, who had begun jumping up and down to catch glimpses over Vivian’s shoulders. “Alright, alright,” Gabriela said, halting in her rapid-fire page turning. “I think I’ve got one that is possible for us to complete without burning the house down.” She lifted Rory onto her kneecap to help her see as Vivian’s fingers began darting across the ingredients list. “It’s so basic! Can’t we do something better?” Vivian said. “There’s nothing particularly romantic about having some pesto with pasta.” “What do you think, Ro?” Gabriela shifted her position, turning to meet her younger sister’s wide brown eyes. “Hmm,” Rory said, savoring the spotlight, her brow furrowed in deep contemplation over the decision. “Well?” said Vivian. “Don’t you agree that a honey roasted salmon with a cranberry and walnut glaze would be far superior?” “You know, I do believe this is a recipe for the PB&J Lord.” “So there you have it, Viv, two-to-one.” “Ugh!” Vivian said, but she unhooked the page from the binding. “I hate living under a democracy.” “That’s what everyone says when democracy works against them,” Gabriela said. All Vivian gave in return was a stuck-out tongue before she relented, assuming her familiar role as delegator. This was always signified by her wrangling her short dark curls into a low bun, and rolling up the sleeves of whatever shirt she was wearing up until her shoulder blades. “All right troops!” she said, recipe sheet in hand. “Gabby, you and I will be in charge of the boiling of the water, Rory, you will be tasked with grating the Parmesan cheese! All clear?” “All clear!” said Rory, who had fashioned an old red scarf into a bandana around her head. “All clear,” said Gabriela, already turning on the lights and fan above the stove. “Let’s get cooking!” And so they did. Disastrously.