The kitchen had never seen so much chaos—and that was saying something, considering Lu Jianjun's first ever attempts at "hands-on parenting" to rival his spoilt brat's mother.
Lu Jianjun stood at the stove like a general facing defeat, his usually perfect suit jacket thrown somewhere between the exploding dumplings and what used to be pork belly. His sleeves were rolled up with military precision, as if proper cuff technique could compensate for his complete inability to distinguish between "sauté" and "incinerate."
It had started twenty minutes ago when Little Tiger, poking listlessly at Mrs. Chen's perfectly good dinner, had delivered the killing blow with all the innocent cruelty of childhood: "I miss Mama and her cooking. Only she knows how to make food taste good."
