So . . . Swedish meatballs. We’re throwing a dinner party, and you’re the chef.” Pete blinked. “I have a casserole to heat up downstairs.” “What kind?” “Tuna, potato chip, and mushroom soup.” Fast and cheap, one of his mother’s specialties. Mrs. Grace stared, those sleepy golden-brown eyes opening up all the way. “Pete. The Founding Fathers did not create this great nation of ours so that we could let them down by combining canned tuna with instant mushroom soup. That is not a casserole, that is a war crime. Go downstairs and dump it in the trash this instant, and bring Lina back up. Tonight
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