The smell of cedarwood and burnt flour always meant one thing in the Miller household: Saturday. It was the day the kitchen transformed from a room of utility into a theater of chaos, led by the undisputed director of the house, Elias Miller.
Elias was a man of few words but many gestures. He expressed his love through the precise folding of pastry dough and the way he'd secretly turn up the thermostat ten minutes before his wife, Martha, walked through the door after her night shift at the hospital.
Their love story didn't start with a lightning bolt or a grand cinematic gesture. It started in 1998, in a crowded university library, over a shared stapler and a mutual disdain for organic chemistry.
The smell of cedarwood and burnt flour always meant one thing in the Miller household: Saturday. It was the day the kitchen transformed from a room of utility into a theater of chaos, led by the undisputed director of the house, Elias Miller.
Elias was a man of few words but many gestures. He expressed his love through the precise folding of pastry dough and the way he'd secretly turn up the thermostat ten minutes before his wife, Martha, walked through the door after her night shift at the hospital.
Their love story didn't start with a lightning bolt or a grand cinematic gesture. It started in 1998, in a crowded university library, over a shared stapler and a mutual disdain for organic chemistry.
"You're doing the covalent bonds wrong," Martha had whispered, not looking up from her own notes.
"I'm doing them creatively," Elias had countered.