Piglet’s dinner would not be like her mother’s or her future in-laws’. There would be jazz music, cigarettes smoked on the patio, and a dessert made from one of the new cookbooks she was editing: an espresso semifreddo with warm caramel sauce and glinting shards of praline. There were easier recipes she could have made—she could have bought dessert, pudding, even—but she did not pass up an opportunity to mention one of her authors by name on the off chance someone might ask for the recipe.
