“The fuck happened?” “I was trying to cook dinner.” “What dinner?” ’Cause all I saw were burned… somethings. They looked how they smelled—like old, burned jock straps. She gestured to whatever those lumps were next to the dropped baking tray. “Cauliflower steaks.” Cauliflower. That made sense. “Where’re the steaks?” I’d planned on pizza, but if the steaks were still edible, I’d be good with that. “There are none. It’s cauliflower steaks.” It didn’t matter how much she repeated the words or how slow she said them, my brain couldn’t comprehend the idea of cauliflower being a steak. No way in
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