Have You Eaten? Part 3: Morrow’s Comfort

Read “Have You Eaten? Part 1: Daneka’s Birthday” here!

Read “Have You Eaten? Part 2: Dinner with Peter” here!

In a new serialized novella from Hugo Award-winning author Sarah Gailey, a fractured group of undesirables work together to nurture and nourish each other while navigating a dangerous world that would just as soon see them dead. Still—inch by inch, meal by meal—they build their own future. Have you eaten?

Author’s note: This story contains fictional depictions of intimate partner violence.

Fen’s Sister’s Gnocchi

350 g butternut squash
1 egg
2–3 cups flour
Salt
Pepper

1. Cut the squash in half. Rub it all over with oil. Place it face down on a baking sheet and roast at 425 degrees for 25 minutes.
2. Remove the squash from the oven and let it cool completely, about 1 hour.
3. Remove the peel and mash the squash into a smooth paste. Form the paste into a mound and form a well in the center.
4. Crack 1 egg into the well. Stir with fingers to combine.
5. Add flour in batches, working the flour in until a sticky, firm dough forms. Add a big pinch of salt and a healthy amount of pepper with the first batch of flour.
6. Knead for 1–2 minutes.
7. Form into a ball and rest for 20 minutes.
8. Cut the ball into eight equal parts. Roll each part out into a snake the width of your thumb. Cut each snake into 1-inch sections using a knife or pasta cutter.
9. Bring a large pot of water to a rolling boil. Add the gnocchi in batches, stirring gently once to prevent sticking. Once the gnocchi bob to the top of the water, remove/drain and serve.
10. Optional: Fry after boiling to get a crisp exterior.

Suggested lemon ricotta sauce: Combine the zest of 1 lemon, 1 cup ricotta, lots of black pepper, and about 1 ladleful of pasta water. Stir to combine. Consistency should be thick and smooth.

The old farmhouse has thin walls, so everyone in the kitchen knows it when Peter and Morrow go from fucking to fighting. The soft thumps and creaks from upstairs are interrupted by the sound of Morrow asking a question over and over, at increasing volume, and then there’s a crash that is unmistakably the sound of a body hitting a wall. And then another crash, that is unmistakably the sound of the same body hitting the wall again.

Quan is the first one to move. He and Harper and Fen have been processing oranges all morning for Missus Bouchard. They’ve been seated at the kitchen table—Quan slicing off thin curls of peel, Harper pulling off the white pith, Fen smashing the oranges through a wide-mesh strainer and into a huge pot in her lap. Quan still has the paring knife in his hand as he gets to his feet and heads for the stairs at the sound of the second impact.

Fen is next. She sets the pot on the table, careful even in her haste—that pot of pulp is their days’ rent—and by the third time they hear the body hit the wall, she and Quan are halfway up the stairs.

Harper doesn’t follow right away, because Fen is already on the way, and they don’t want to move until they know there’s a real problem. They finish pulling pith off the orange in their hand, adding it to the pile of foamy white discard on the scarred wooden kitchen table. They listen as, upstairs, Quan and Fen burst into Peter and Morrow’s bedroom. They don’t stand up until they hear Fen’s voice shouting a clear, high “What the fuck?!”

At the sound of that, Harper sets down their orange and makes for the stairs. They take their time. With each step they ascend, they hear the voices upstairs rise. Everyone is talking over each other. Harper can make out “explain” and “are you really” and “don’t fucking move” and “Daneka.”

They stand in the bedroom doorway and take in the scene. Morrow is in their underwear, breathing like a street-loose bull. Peter is curled at Morrow’s feet, naked, head tucked, hands clasped protectively over the back of his neck. Quan and Fen are standing near the bed, peering down at an unfamiliar white palmset.

Harper leans against the doorframe. “S’goin’ on?”

Morrow looks up. Their face is alight with rage. “He’s not who he says he is.”

“I never said I didn’t know her,” Peter says. The words come out muffled, thick with pain. “Babe, please. If you’ll just let me explain—”

Morrow’s body twists with liquid speed. They drive their heel hard into the back of Peter’s thigh, and the bone-deep thump of the impact shakes the air in the room. “We’ve been here for a fucking month,” Morrow says. They usually keep their voice small. It is not small now. “And you never thought to mention that you know Daneka? Never occurred to you?”

Harper straightens, their brows drawing together. “Wait. He knows Daneka?”

Fen is still staring down at the palmset. “Seems like.”

They kick out again, but Peter has curled himself up tighter, and the blow doesn’t land as hard this time. “You didn’t think you should tell us? Not once when we’ve been sitting around talking about how worried we are? Not once when you were inside of me?”

“Morrow, maybe you don’t want to—” Quan says, but Fen puts a hand on his shoulder and he falls silent.

Morrow squats down and grasps a fistful of Peter’s hair, wrenching his head back. “You remember what Fen said when we first met you?”

Peter looks up at Morrow the way a broke-neck deer on the side of the road looks at the receding taillights of the truck that put it there. Blood coats his lips and chin. “Wh—?”

“She said that if you fuck around,” Morrow growls, “you’ll find out.”

The hand that isn’t clenched around Peter’s hair forms a fist. The fist is the size of a brick. The fist is the weight of a brick. The fist is as hard as a brick. Peter closes his eyes, tries to twist out of Morrow’s grip as they draw the fist back, but there’s nowhere to go.

The blow lands with killing force. Fen and Quan and Harper feel it in their teeth and all of them wonder at the same time whether they’ve just watched a man die. But then Morrow pulls the fist back again, and Peter sucks in a breath of whistling pain, and they know that—at least for now—he’s alive.

 Before Morrow can strike Peter again, Harper is out of the doorway and in the room. They step in close enough to press the front of their thigh against the bloody plane of Morrow’s knuckles. “Don’t,” they say. So Morrow doesn’t.

Harper and Quan grab Peter by the underarms and haul him to his feet. “Fen, you got Morrow?”

“On it.”

“We’ll be right back.” Harper says. They and Quan drag Peter down the stairs without stopping to let him get his feet under him. After a minute, the front door of the old farmhouse slams.

Fen looks at Morrow, trying to decide what kind of help they might need. She’d said “on it” when what she’d really meant was “you go ahead and handle what you’re handling, you can trust that I’ll handle things up here.” But she doesn’t know what handling things up here actually means.

“Is all his stuff in his bag?” Fen finally asks. Morrow shakes their head, points to a pile of clothes in one corner. Fen shoves the clothes into the now-familiar duffel, then opens the window and peers down at the naked, bleeding man in the front yard. “Catch,” she calls, and then she drops the bag out the window. She doesn’t wait to see if it falls on top of him.

As she turns around, Morrow is pulling on a shirt. “Sorry you had to see that,” they say softly.

Fen doesn’t say that it’s okay, because she knows Morrow’s not okay. And she doesn’t say that she’s surprised Morrow let Peter live, because that would only make them feel worse about letting out the violence they work so hard to contain. She doesn’t say that she can’t believe what she saw on Peter’s palmset, because she doesn’t want to remind Morrow of the thing that made them let their fury loose in the first place.

So she shoves her hands into her pockets and asks, “You hungry?”

Morrow looks up at her and their face is raw and their eyes are shining and she can see all the way down the deep dark tunnel that shame has drilled through them. “Yeah,” they say. They’re obviously lying, but that doesn’t matter. As long as they’re answering at all. As long as they’re still here.

“It’s almost time for lunch. Come downstairs. I’m gonna make something cool.”

Quan and Harper are waiting for them in the kitchen. They’re back to peeling oranges, and the bright fog of citrus oil is overwhelming. It smells like a day in the sun. Morrow flinches a little, then breathes in deep through their nose. They linger in the kitchen door, filling the frame, watching Quan strip curls off an orange with that tiny paring knife. “How’d Missus Bouchard get oranges all the way up here this time of year?” they ask at last.

“I guess her husband seized them at the border crossing,” Quan answers. He doesn’t add a barb—gentleness is something he’s been trying on lately, with mixed success, but it’s a relief that he’s managing it right now.

“Yeah, he pulled the truck out of line right before he got sick,” Fen adds. “Missus Bouchard told me this morning. She said State BP was so tied up with trying to deny his sick leave that they didn’t notice the seized oranges never ended up anywhere.”

Harper snorts. “I believe her exact words were, ‘If they want the fucking oranges they can come try me.’”

Morrow’s face twitches in the same place a smile would go.

They take over for Fen at the strainer, smashing the peeled oranges with a wooden spoon. Their movements are methodical, rhythmic. The work needs doing, and they need to do it until they’re back in their own body, their own mind. Their own promises to themself.

This is how the four of them—five, including Peter—have been earning their keep at the Bouchard farm for the past month. They’ve doing odd jobs in exchange for permission to sleep in the old farmhouse on the Bouchard property, biding their time while they wait for Bouchard himself to recover from the SARS-15 that’s currently keeping him bedbound. Once he’s well enough to get back to work at the border crossing, they’ll be able to get into Illinois safely.

To Chicago. Maybe, if everything goes right, to Daneka.

Fen and Quan are thinking about Daneka right now. About her face in that video on Peter’s palmset. Harper didn’t see it, and they’re waiting to hear about it so they can understand what happened upstairs. Morrow isn’t thinking about anything. They can’t, not after what just happened upstairs. Their skull is filled with soft white static, like the pith that cushions the wet flesh of an orange.

Fen consults a recipe card from her family recipe box. She cleans the counter thoroughly, scrubbing it down with soap and hot water twice over. Then, when she’s satisfied that the counter is ready, she pulls a pan out of the oven. It has the leftover half of a roasted butternut squash on it. The other half was dinner the night before, shared between the five of them along with a few eggs from Missus Bouchard’s chickens. This half has been sitting in the oven waiting to get used for something.

Fen knows what she wants to do with it now. She uses a spoon to scrape the peel away from the flesh of the roasted squash, then crushes it into paste with her hands. She scoops the paste right onto the clean kitchen counter, shapes it into a hill, and makes a divot in the center of the pile.

“Morrow, can you give me a hand?” She holds up her palms, which are coated in sticky orange squash. “I’m all gross.”

Morrow looks up at her with empty eyes. “Sure. What do you need?”

At Fen’s instruction, Morrow pulls out the last of Missus Bouchard’s eggs and cracks it into the well in the middle of the crushed squash. She mixes the egg and the squash with her hands. The mixture makes a shockingly awful wet noise that draws a cackle out of Quan and a skeptical frown out of Harper.

Then Fen asks Morrow to grab the flour. Missus Bouchard gave a full sack of good white flour to Harper as payment for a full day of fence repair, and they’ve got half the sack left. It looks to be made from an old version of the Wisconsin state flag, from back before the state took the e pluribus unum seal off and replaced it with a second, larger badger.

Morrow stares down at the deep blue fabric blankly until Fen says their name. She has them add a fistful of flour to the heap of goo in front of her. Just a fistful. Then another, and then another, slowly. At first Fen uses her fingers to gently stir, mixing the flour in; then her hands begin to knead as the combination forms a thick dough that pulls away from the surface beneath it. Soon enough, the dough in front of Fen has turned into a smooth orange ball.

Morrow is watching her hands, the dough, the nearly clean counter. Some of the blankness is melting away from their face. “That was cool,” they murmur.

Fen smacks the taut surface of the dough with her palm. “Gotta let it sit for twenty minutes. Then I’ll need your help again.”

“Twenty minutes,” Harper says, not looking up from the half-cleaned orange in their hands, “seems like exactly the right amount of time to talk about what happened upstairs.”

Fen draws a slow breath. Quan puts down his paring knife. Morrow’s shoulders slump. Harper looks to each of them with hard, patient eyes.

Morrow speaks first. “I don’t know how to explain the video.”

“How did you even see the video?” Quan asks. “Weren’t you two right in the middle of—”

“His palmset was on the nightstand. I saw Daneka’s name come up on a notification,” Morrow says. They’re speaking like there’s a candle in front of their lips that mustn’t go out. The others lean forward to hear. “I grabbed it and looked. He tried to stop me, but he— that was a mistake. You know?”

Harper nods. They understand mistakes like this one better than anyone. “Did you see the whole thing?”

Morrow shrugs. “It was a video. I saw it, but he was trying to explain and get the palmset away, so I didn’t really get to watch all the way through. Quan and Fen did, though, I think.”

“Sort of,” Quan says. “But I didn’t understand what I was seeing.”

Fen’s got her arms folded tight across her chest. She’s chewing on the inside of her cheek. She drops her chin to her chest and her dark curls, longish now and dry from travel, fall over her eyes. Her deliberation lasts long enough to fill the kitchen with a low hum of tension.

Quan snaps first. “For fuck’s sake. What?”

Fen looks up at him, eyes narrowed. “I’m thinking.”

“Obviously.”

“I’m thinking about whether the thing I wanna say is a bad idea. For Morrow.”

Morrow’s brow tightens. “For me?”

“I don’t want this to make things harder for you.”

Harper cracks a knuckle against the table. “I think,” they say, “Morrow can handle themself.”

“I know that,” Fen says. “We all know that. I’m more worried about—” And then she stops herself, because she doesn’t know how to say what she’s worried about. It’s the tight coil of violence that lives in the center of Morrow, it’s the whipcrack of their fist, it’s the way they stop feeling pain when it’s someone else’s turn.

Morrow’s shoulders draw down toward their sternum and their eyes find a spot on the floor. “I promise I won’t hurt any of you,” they whisper. “No matter what you saw on that palmset. I wouldn’t. I won’t.”

Quan rubs his forehead with the heel of one hand. His eyes have gone glossy. “Fen’s not afraid of you. Nobody here is afraid of you. It’s just—”

“I don’t want to make it harder,” Fen says again. “But. Okay.” She untucks one arm from across her chest and reaches into her back pocket. When her hand reappears, she’s got the white palmset between her index and middle fingers. “I kept this.”

Harper rises and crosses the kitchen. Their movements are slow, their knees soft, their footfalls quiet. They slowly put their body between Morrow and Fen before taking the palmset out of Fen’s hand. Their back is still toward Morrow when they say, “I don’t know if Morrow wants to see this.”

“I do,” Morrow says quickly. “I want to see her.”

Quan drums his fingers on the table. “Morrow is fine. You two need to calm down.”

The way Harper turns to face Quan has just as much danger in it as the fist Morrow made an hour before. “You want me more calm than I am now?”

“I’m not fine,” Morrow cuts in. “But that’s okay. I want to see the video. The video isn’t the thing that made me—um.” They swallow hard. “That made me upset. I don’t think it’ll make me upset again now.”

Harper approaches the table and stands next to Quan. Morrow moves to stand next to them. They rest their palms flat on the surface of the table. Their knuckles are swelling; a deep red bruise is forming on the biggest knuckle of their right hand. Fen winds up behind Quan’s chair. She tugs on his hair and he swats her hand away.

The video is one of many in a long series of messages from Daneka to Peter. There are no responses from Peter in the chat. All of Daneka’s messages are videos, going back about a month.

“What was the date when we met Peter?” Fen asks softly.

“Not sure,” Quan replies.

Morrow sniffs. “It was about a month ago. But I’m not sure if it was before or after that first message from Daneka.”

They play through the videos, and it quickly becomes clear that they’re all the same video. Kind of. In each one, Daneka stands in a field, squinting into bright sunlight, shading her eyes with the flat of her hand. Her auburn curls toss wildly in a strong wind. There are flowers behind her, yellow and white ones, and some trees in the middle distance. She turns slowly to reveal a massive, shining lake that stretches to the horizon. As she’s turning, she speaks, her voice cigarette-raspy and wind distorted but still as musical as always. “You guys wouldn’t believe how beautiful it is here! I found the most amazing queer community. We have our own little farm and a communal kitchen that Fen’s gonna love! Come soon? I miss you!”

Then she blows a kiss into the camera, and the video is over.

The four of them watch each video. The first one doesn’t have the kiss—it just cuts off after “I miss you.” In the second one, Daneka just says “amazing community,” but in the third one, the word queer comes back in. Sometimes the flowers change color. Sometimes it seems to be later in the day, sometimes earlier. The second-to-last video is where the line about the communal kitchen appears.

Harper blows out a slow breath. “So.”

“We’re fucked,” Quan says. “Should have let Morrow kill him.”

Fen scrubs her hands across her upper arms. “We’re not fucked yet.”

Quan twists in his chair to look at her. “Explain how. That guy is clearly working with someone who wants to fuck us over somehow, and who has the ability to make this quality of deepfake. Peter knows who we are, and he knows where we are, and he knows where we’re going. Show me a gap we can slip out of. Tell me what I’m missing here.”

“Right,” Fen says. “That dough’s been resting long enough. Morrow, want to help me get lunch going?”

Quan throws his hands into the air. “Great. Yeah, go cook. I’ll just sit here and wait for sirens.”

Fen walks into the kitchen. Her lips are tight. She grabs the big kitchen knife and uses it to cut the ball of dough into eight sections, never letting the blade come into contact with the countertop. “I just need to think.”

“What’s there to think about? We need to leave. I’m going to go pack. Harp, want me to pack up your stuff too?”

“Not yet,” Harper replies, their eyes fixed on Fen. “I want us to have a plan first.”

“I need a minute to think,” Fen says again.

Harper’s reply is low. “I heard you the first time. I’m not rushing you. Don’t let Quan get in your head.”

“He’s not in my head.”

Harper doesn’t say anything to that. They don’t need to.

Fen gives Morrow an are you helping or not look, and Morrow comes to the kitchen. Fen sprinkles flour across the countertop, then demonstrates how to roll each section of dough into a long snake. The width of the snake is halfway between Morrow’s massive thumb and Fen’s slender one. “Gentle hands,” Fen says. “The squash makes the dough break easier.”

Morrow’s hands are gentle. They’re as gentle as a kid holding an egg, as gentle as a cat pawing at a cobweb. They don’t break the dough. Fen leaves them to the work of rolling out the sections while she fills a tall pot with water.

“I think we do need to leave,” she says slowly. “But I don’t think it’s an emergency.”

At the kitchen table, Harper has taken up Quan’s paring knife and is methodically peeling oranges. “Why not?”

“Because whoever Peter was working with—if they’re after us, they already know where we are, right? It’s not like he can go bring them any new information.”

“But now they know that we know that they know.” Harper pauses, mouthing the sentence to themself again to make sure they’ve gotten it right. “They aren’t spying on us in secret anymore.”

“So there’s no reason not to just come scoop us up directly,” Morrow murmurs. “I’m done with these, Fen.”

Fen looks over the lengths of dough and smiles. “These are perfect.” She hands Morrow the big knife, handle-first, and shows them how to cut the dough into inch-long sections. “It’s good for them to be kind of pinched down at the edges like that. I don’t think they’re going to come scoop us up from here. They wouldn’t raid this place.” She doesn’t pause between these two sentences, and it takes both Harper and Morrow a moment to realize that they’re not connected.

“Because Bouchard’s a statie?” Harper considers this. “I don’t know.”

Morrow frowns down at the dough as they cut it. “He’s a state border cop. Border cops and regular cops don’t protect each other the same way they protect themselves.”

“We don’t know that Peter’s working with state cops. Could be feds,” Harper offers.

Fen leans her elbows on the kitchen counter and buries her face in her hands. “We can’t know. And if we don’t know what’s coming, then we can’t stay here. But if we run—if we don’t get to Chicago . . . Fuck. That’s where I told Daneka we’d be. We’ll miss her if we don’t find a way into the state and this is our best bet.”

“I’m done with these,” Morrow says again, gesturing to the neat piles of miniature pillows on the counter.

Harper drops the last peeled orange into the pile on the table. “Perfect timing. Morrow, you come pull pith off these things. I gotta go.”

Fen lifts her head out of her hands. “You’re leaving?”

Harper grabs their jacket off the back of a kitchen chair. “Not leaving-leaving. Just heading over to the New House to talk to Missus Bouchard.”

“About what?”

They pull the jacket on. “To tell her we’re almost done prepping her fruit for marmalade. And to ask after her husband. Maybe he’s ready to go back to work. Maybe he’s picking up a shift tomorrow.”

“There’s no way,” Fen says warily. “She’d have said something if he was better.”

Harper shrugs. “S’polite to ask. Morrow, finish off these oranges so I can bring Missus Bouchard over to pick up her pot of goo. And Fen?”

Fen waits.

“Don’t worry,” Harper says. It’s almost soft, the way they say it. “I’m not leaving you alone. Not yet.”

And then they’re gone.

Morrow sits at the dining table and starts picking pith off the oranges with quick, careful fingers. Behind Fen, the water on the stove starts to boil. She heaves a hard, sharp sigh. 

“I’m sorry,” Morrow says after a few minutes.

Fen drops two handfuls of gnocchi into the boiling water. “For what?”

“For being scary. Don’t say I wasn’t, I know I was.”

Fen nods down into the pot as she gives the water a gentle stir. “You were. But it’s okay. You were keeping us safe.”

They’re quiet for a long time. Then, so softly Fen almost doesn’t hear it at all, they murmur, “I don’t want to be a guard dog.”

Quan comes stomping down the stairs before Fen can reply. “There’s blood all over the floor in that bedroom. We got time for me to clean it up before we go?”

“Plenty of time,” Fen says. She and Quan negotiate around each other in the kitchen—the sink is too close to the stove, and there’s not quite room for her to watch the pot while Quan rummages for cleaning supplies. When Quan straightens, a rag in one hand and an unlabeled spray bottle in the other, he and Fen are only a couple of inches apart.

 He studies her face for a moment. “Are we fighting?”

“No,” Fen says firmly. Then she lets herself smile. “We’re just figuring things out. All of us. Me and Harper are working on a plan. It’s gonna be okay.”

“You’re sure?” Quan studies Fen’s eyes, her forehead, her mouth. “Is Harper leaving?”

“They said they’re not. I believe them.”

“If they leave . . . will you go with them?”

Fen blinks rapidly. “If Harper leaves, I don’t think they’d want anyone to come with them. But they’re not leaving, so it doesn’t matter, right?”

“Sure. And we’re not fighting?”

It pulls a little smile out of Fen, finally, Quan asking this again. “We’re not fighting.”

“Good.” Quan kisses Fen on the forehead once, quickly and lightly, and then he’s gone, long strides carrying him out of the kitchen.

Fen blinks at the space where Quan was standing a moment before. She turns wide eyes toward Morrow. “Did you—?”

Morrow stares back, their brows nearly touching their hairline. “I saw. Are you two . . . ?”

“No,” Fen replies. “Not that I know of. Maybe—no. Right?”

Morrow doesn’t have an answer for her. 

In the pot, the gnocchi are starting to bob to the surface. Fen thinks of Daneka’s hair in the video, the way it tossed in the wind. She heats a pan on the other burner, drops a knob of butter from Missus Bouchard’s huge ornery cow onto the heat, and waits for it to melt and sizzle. She thinks of Daneka’s eyes in the video. Once the butter starts turning golden, she scoops the cooked gnocchi out of the pot with a slotted spoon and drops them into the butter to fry. She thinks of the shine of that vast lake. She puts more gnocchi into the pot, and works in batches to boil and fry them.

She thinks of Quan’s lips on her forehead, and she smiles down into the sizzling pan.

As the house fills with the smell of browning butter, Morrow pulls the pith off oranges, and Quan scrubs the floorboards, and Harper charms an answer out of Missus Bouchard. The sun outside is high and bright. It shines on the old farmhouse, and the big new one on the other side of the property, and the milking shed and the chicken coop and the feed shed, and somewhere out there, it shines on Peter, too.

Fen sprinkles salt a pile of toasted, butter-glossy gnocchi.  “Come get a plate,” she calls. She knows the only people who can hear her are Morrow and Quan, but part of her is calling out to Daneka, wherever she is. Part of her is making a plate for Daneka. Part of her is cooking for Daneka, every time she cooks. Every meal.

She doesn’t wait for anyone to come running before she grabs a fork. The bite she takes is too hot.

She closes her eyes and lets it burn her tongue.

Fen and Morrow’s Gnocchi

Half of a butternut squash
1 egg
2–3 cups flour
Salt
Pepper

1. Place the half-squash face down on a baking sheet. Rub it all over with butter. Roast at 425 degrees for 25 minutes.
2. Remove the squash from the oven and let it cool completely.
3. Remove the peel and mash the squash into a smooth paste. Form the paste into a mound and form a well in the center.
4. Crack 1 egg into the well. Stir with fingers to combine.
5. Add flour in batches, working the flour in until a sticky, firm dough forms.
6. Knead for 1–2 minutes.
7. Form into a ball and rest for 20 minutes. *This is the perfect amount of time for a hard conversation.
8. Cut the ball into eight equal parts. Roll each part out into a snake the width of someone’s thumb. Cut each snake into 1-inch sections using a knife or pasta cutter.
9. Bring a large pot of water to a rolling boil. Add the gnocchi in batches, stirring gently once to prevent sticking. Once the gnocchi bob to the top of the water, remove.
10. Melt butter in a skillet over medium heat. Once the butter starts to brown, fry gnocchi in batches.
11. Sprinkle with salt and pepper and eat piping hot.

“Have You Eaten?” copyright © 2024 by Sarah Gailey
Art copyright © 2024 by Shing Yin Khor
Photography copyright © 2024 by Sarah Gailey