I suddenly caught the unmistakable scent of a smoking burner rising from the kitchen. In another house, the fact that someone besides me was cooking might not be the cause for panicking. The jar of spaghetti sauce Charlie had stuck in the microwave was only on its first revolution when I yanked the door open and pulled it out. "What did I do wrong?" Charlie demanded. "You're supposed to take the lid off first, Dad. Metal's bad for microwaves." I swiftly removed the lid as I spoke, poured half the sauce into a bowl, and then put the bowl inside the microwave and jar back in the fridge; I fixed the time and pressed start. Charlie watched my adjustments with pursed lips. "Did I get the noodles right?" I looked at the pan on the stove- the source of the smell that alerted her. "Stirring helps," I said mildly. I found a spoon and tried to de-clump the mushy hunk that was scalded to the bottom. Charlie sighed. "So what's this all about?" I asked him. He folded his arms across his chest and glared out the back windows into the sheeting rain, "Don't know what you're talking about," He grumbled. I was mystified. My dad cooking? And what was with the surly attitude? Edward and Bella hadn't arrived yet; usually Charlie reserved this kind of behavior for my soon to be brother-in-law's benefit, doing his best to illustrate the theme of "unwelcome" with every word and posture. "Did I miss something? Since when do you make dinner?" I asked Charlie. The pasta lump bobbed in the boiling water as I poked it. "Or try to make dinner, I should say." Charlie shrugged. "There's no law that says I can't cook in my own house." I chuckled, "You would know." I joked. "Ha. Good one." I prodded the noodles in silence, guessing that Charlie would get around to talking about whatever was bothering him in his own time. My dad was not a man of many words, and the effort he had put into trying to orchestrate a sit-down dinner with me made it clear there were an uncharacteristic number of words on his mind. My dad sat down at the table with a grunt and unfolded the damp newspaper there; within seconds he was clucking his tongue in disapproval. I gave up on saving dinner and settled for serving it; I had to use a steak knife to cut a portion of spaghetti for Charlie and then myself; while he watched with a sheepish expression. Charlie coated his helping with sauce and dug in. I disguised my own clump as well as I could and followed his example with much enthusiasm. We ate in silence for a moment. Charlie was still scanning the news, so I picked up my much-abused copy of Wuthering Heights from where I'd left it this morning at breakfast, and tried to lose myself in turn-of-the-century England while I waited for him to start talking.