Phone calls from out of town, Tuesday evening
Shane's in their bedroom, perched on the windowsill and writing in her journal. The dishes have been done, and the leftover food from dinner's experiments packaged up to send to Bobby and Kiki at Jam Pony, and through one of them to Geoff. Another few containers are destined for George, in the apartment below them, and the Roosevelts, in the apartment above.
The product of the evening's experiments, though, is not in the form of the carefully packaged leftovers, but in the recipes now written out neatly, with notations of what can be improved for next time. A simple black binder holds them all, its transparent plastic sleeves slowly filling with successes. Failures are stored, too, investigated for why they didn't work, but they're kept in a blue binder and hidden out of sight, as if their influence out on the counter could seduce other recipes to the un-tasty side.
It's nearly ten o'clock on a Tuesday night, though, and it's been a few days since she's heard from her eldest son. If he holds true to form, he'll probably call tonight, just to check in on her.
So many people seem to have left town, recently - Lana and Cassie and Bobby have all been in mourning of one kind or another. Tara doesn't share that sense of being left behind, though, relying on regular telephone calls to keep Bruce and Jonathan present in her life.
[ooc: I've mostly been handwaving phonecalls, but the dear and departed princenolonger has agreed to come back for a guest appearance in this one.]