My son dreams of becoming a chef. Spatulas, tongs, measuring cups, a tabletop deep fryer, and a dozen boxes of red velvet cake mix line his bookshelves like an honor guard of mismatched soldiers. His desk is a library of notebooks filled with recipes he gleaned while watching hundreds of…

“What’s for dinner?” my son Andrew asks me every morning. What’s for dinner? I haven’t figured out how I’ll get out of bed. Barely conscious, I stumble from bed to shower, tugging at the faucet while waiting for the water to run warm. “I like it when the house smells…