I see it while crossing the street. It is taped perilously to the Walk/Don’t Walk sign.

Protest Against GMOs
(Genetically Modified Organisms)
Demonstration — March — Costumes
Pershing Square, Downtown
Saturday, May 2nd, 12 Noon
Come Dressed as Frankenfood!!

I tear down the sign and shove it into my bag.

I am hungry, I’m sick of takeout, and I know that the chances of there being anything good in the fridge at home are slim. So I head into the Good Stuff natural supermarket and I spend twenty bucks on some soba noodles and vegetables.

In the kitchen there’s a wok that my mother got from some game show she did. It has never been used. I take it out from under the sink, oil it up, and begin preparing dinner. I hear the front door squeak open and the sound of Mom kicking off the very high heels that she always wears to meetings with her agent.

“They make my legs look like they’re still twenty,” she always says.

She pads over to the kitchen and peers over my shoulder as I’m stirring up the veggies with some tofu and ginger soy sauce.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” Mom says.

“I figure if I can whip up a batch of realistic fake eyeballs, I can cook anything,” I say.

Mom laughs so hard spit flies out. So I begin to laugh along with her. It feels good to laugh together.

“I never thought of it that way,” she says. “I could have used that line when I was with your father. Maybe he would have cooked dinner for me once.”

“There’s enough for two,” I say.

Mom doesn’t miss a beat as she sets the table.

For once we are not going to order in and eat from the Styrofoam boxes that separate us into pad Thai and chicken piccata. For once we are not going to eat in different rooms or in front of the television because we don’t have anything to say. For once we are going to eat like a family.

I dole out the portions into the seldom-used bowls, and Mom doesn’t make a big deal out of it or try to force a conversation. She is just Mom. I am just Victoria.