Currently the mother of the two sisters is planning her death. She has taken one of her daughters on a vacation to a dreary Scottish island, the land of their ancestors. Unbeknownst to the daughter, she doesn't plan to return to London.
I don't think she has any dread disease to help her out. She had breast cancer years ago and the foam, um, replacements she wears often get jostled out of place. She can't always tell when she's, um, uneven unless her daughter points it out. Which the mother does not like to hear.
So I ask you, if your slip is showing, if you are wearing your lunch in your teeth, if the back of your pants is covered in cat hairs, if an e-mail not meant to be seen by your in-laws ends up in their inbox anyway--do you want to know about it?
Meanwhile, munch on this, a dish which came together easily for a woman who just got back in town and is still setting herself aright: