I’ve got Tristian Mercer eating out of the palm of my hand. Literally. He opens his mouth, teeth taking the meatball when I hold it to his lips. He gives it a few experimental chews, eyes wary. That’s how I know I’ve got him. I doubt Tristian blindly accepts food from just anyone. “They’re vegan and gluten-free,” I assure him. “I used almond meal as the binder, and nutritional yeast as a passable substitute for parmesan.” It’s a load of crap, really. Nothing about these could be called meatballs. Ms. Crane was puttering around the kitchen while I was cooking them, and she kept cackling at
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