She stared up at him. “Yo no,” she said, shaking her head. “No more cook!” She waved her hands in front of herself. In Spanish, she said, “I was a cook for everybody for 50 years. I had to. Now I won‘t have to cook for anybody ever again. Oh no, Gabriel. I am a refugee from the apron.”
It had never occurred to Little Angel that cooking masterpieces every day had been a chore. “Get me coffee,” she said. “Sí?”
Off he went.
“I eat hamburrgurrs now!”