And I burnt it. To be fair, it was my first time, but all the lovely subtleties were lost to the garrulous presence of smoke and my own disappointment.

To spare my sleeping family, I brought the blender outside. I told myself the burnt flavour was good, that the mole didn’t taste too strongly of cheap licorice. Every splash of stock added to the mix pained me; fears of dilution and solids, that the leaky, creaky blender would finally give up the ghost partway through. As I folded the mix through my mother’s finest sieve, I couldn’t help but sigh and swear exasperatedly.

I let myself out the back door and started smoking an old cigarette I’d found at the back of my sock drawer. I could feel the dutch oven’s indignation in my cheeks as the slight rush of nicotine hit me. I came of age in this house, I thought. It was and is a place of many firsts and memories — why was this any different, I thought. There is always the first time.

I looked around and realised just how bright and beautiful the moon was, and suddenly felt a great deal more cheerful. I fumbled for my phone and raised it skyward.

Clouds had moved in.

Ugh.