Braving the warmth of my kitchen, I'd boiled enough for two, which seemed like a perfect complement to the shish kebabs. But Milo hemmed and hawed and said he'd really prefer a baked potato. Refusing to turn on the oven, I compromised by using the microwave. The potato blew up just as Milo and I were halfway through our predinner drinks. “Damn it,” I grumbled, wiping potato pieces from the inside of the microwave, “I never can do that right! What about noodles?” “What kind?” The sheriff was leaning against the refrigerator, looking put-upon. “Any kind. I've got about six varieties of pasta in the cupboard.” “Plain noodles are okay,” he allowed after a lengthy reflection. “You know, the sort of wavy ones. But not those curly kind that look like corkscrews.” “Fine.” I finished cleaning the microwave, then went in search of egg noodles. “Go check the barbecue. And don't come back in the kitchen. I can't wait to get outside.” Obediently Milo ambled to the back door.
