I can still taste her the morning after. It’s difficult to forget some things, especially when you don’t quite understand them. And Willow’s a mystery, even though it doesn’t seem like she has any self-awareness about it. A girl beautiful enough to coast through life on a sea of attention and obliviousness, yet who somehow developed a raw talent the likes of which comes very rarely, who also happens to have the determination and principles of an old hand, yet who can manage to talk to a girl of nine like she’s still a big kid herself. Speaking of which…

“I’m bored. You said you’d only be a minute. It’s been five. I was counting.”

I look up from my desk to see Chloe sitting on a wine crate, swinging her legs and pouting.

“Just one more second,” I say, finishing off the signing of a few more papers. Then I put my pen down and look at her. “Ok then.”

“Can we hang out with Willow?” Chloe says, after we regard each other silently for a moment.

Now I’m the one shaking my head.

“No. Her shift doesn’t start for another five hours.”

“Is she your girlfriend?”

I look at her, a little curious. Maybe it’s true what they say about kids—they can sense things.

“What’s with all the questions?”

Chloe smiles.

“I think you like her.”

I clear my throat and shuffle the papers on the desk. “She’s a good chef and she keeps my kitchen running smoothly. So yeah, I like her.”

Chloe smiles even more broadly now, hopping down from the wine crate to come closer. Now I feel like she’s the one playing games with me.

“You should ask her to be your girlfriend. She’s funny. And pretty. And smart.”

“You’re gonna be a hell of a ballbreaker when you get older, aren’t you?”

“What’s a ballbreaker?”

I stand up and move to the door, gesturing for her to go through it.

“Come on. We’re gonna get you in the kitchen today.”

Chloe goes stock still. “Really? You really think I’m ready?”

“I really do. You nailed that prep work last week.” I give her a high five and as she practically dances down the hall ahead of me, I start to feel like I might not be so bad at this kid stuff after all.

There’s nobody in there now, it being so early in the morning, and once we’re standing among the polished metal appliances and clean surfaces, I turn to Chloe—who stands wide-eyed with awe at all the gleaming tools and professional fixtures—and clap my hands, the closest I can get to creating a sense of excitement.

“So you’ve settled on a pasta dish for the competition, yes?” She nods. “Let’s cook some pasta, then. Have you figured out what kind you’d like to use?”

Without missing a beat, she says, “Ravioli.”

“Ravioli?”

“Yep,” she says, assured. “I even know what I want to stuff it with. Something cheesy…hmm. And mushrooms, maybe. Like the ones we got at the farmers’ market.”

I nod, feeling a little swelling of pride at her growing confidence.

“You ever made your own ravioli before?” I ask.

Chloe looks at me a little uncertainly.

“Kinda? I usually just use lasagna sheets.”

“Well then you’re missing out on half the fun, and on top of that, pasta out of a box can’t hold a candle to the kind you make from scratch. Quick: Pick a color,” I say. “Green, red, black…”

“Red,” Chloe says, responding quickly.

“Good choice,” I say, moving to the vegetable stores to find beets.

Over the next hour or so we work up a dough, mixing in the puréed beets so that it turns a luxurious purple-red. Though I’m not as good as Willow when it comes to pulling silly faces, the magic of the pasta machine entrances Chloe—the same way it entranced me the first time I used one—and we bond over the careful process of flattening out the red dough until it resembles a thin velvet curtain. Chloe takes the task of keeping the counter well floured as seriously as a monk’s prayers, and though I’m a little nervous those tiny hands are going to make a mess of the chore, Chloe exhibits a precision and skill that kinda shocks me.

“What are we going to do about the filling?” she asks. “It needs to be the best, so we can’t afford to slack off.”

I laugh, feeling in a good mood. This is the second time I’ve been compelled by somebody else, and just like the last time, I’m kinda enjoying it. “What do you want?”

“I have some ideas. What do you got to work with?”

I laugh again.

“Let’s see,” I say, moving toward the industrial fridge. “Time for a crash course in ingredient combination, I think.”

For a while I work through a number of ingredients with Chloe—many of which she never seems to have tried before. Mascarpone, gorgonzola, chèvre; butternut squash, truffles; various fresh herbs and spices. I’m impressed both by her adventurous spirit in trying different mixtures, and her honesty in calling out the ones that don’t work together. I can think of a dozen chefs I’ve worked with that had less persistence and invention than this nine-year-old.

“So?” I ask, standing up from the counter we’ve filled with bowls of various cheeses, ingredients and chopped vegetables. “What’s it gonna be?”

Chloe peruses the selection with the severe seriousness of a critic one more time, then points at a bowl.

“That one.”

“And what is that one?”

“Taglio—”

“Taleggio,” I correct.

“Taleggio, rosemary, and I want to do roasted carrots with lemon.”

“Changed your mind about the citrus, did you? I thought it wasn’t your speed.”

She blushes. “I worked with it some more and it turned out to be a good contrast for the herbs—it keeps them from tasting too heavy. But still…” she trails off, screwing up her face as she muses. “It needs something else.”

I look down at the ingredients, thinking for a few seconds.

“You ever had a brown butter sauce?” I ask.

“Yes!” Chloe says, brightening up as she points a triumphant finger at me. “That’s it!”

“Let’s do it, then,” I say, feeling like I’m getting into it as much as she is.

Once we’re done separating the milk, mixing in a little chopped sage as well, we move back to the pasta and I show Chloe how to cut it into the frilled squares of ravioli, though immediately Chloe shakes her head.

“No,” she says.

“What? These are perfect.”

“No,” Chloe repeats, a little more adamantly. “I want to cut it into different shapes.”

“You can’t cut it into different shapes,” I say. “I mean sure, maybe that’s good enough for a novelty restaurant, but if you want to be a serious cook then you cut ravioli the right way. You’ll risk it bursting right open if you try anything too complicated, or you might end up with some pieces where there’s too much dough and it cooks unevenly.”

“I want to cut it into shapes,” Chloe insists, looking at me as if I’m the dissident.

I pause for a second, once again asking myself what Willow would do.

“Ok,” I say, giving in. “What shapes are you going to cut it into?”

“Lemon shapes, to match the lemon flavor on the carrots in the filling. But I’m going to need your help,” Chloe says, with the lack of irony only a child can have. “So please try to do it well.”

I nod, shrug, then say, “Sure. I guess you’re the boss now.”

Somehow, the elliptical shapes aren’t too bad. Against all my suspicions, Chloe seems to have a good sense of correct proportions, covering just enough of the sheets with filling before we press the top layer of ravioli down. Forty minutes later, the pasta all boiled and drained, drizzled with just a little olive oil and fresh-cracked pepper for sampling purposes, we’re eating away, and I’m genuinely impressed.

When Maggie comes to pick her up, even the teacher stays to eat a little, nodding in approval at the youngster’s precocious talent. We package up the leftovers into a few to-go containers, say our goodbyes, and they start to leave.

“Hold up,” I say, as they reach the door of the kitchen. I pick up one last container that they left behind and move toward them. “You forgot one.”

Without missing a beat, Chloe says, “That one’s for Willow. Tell her you made it for her. She likes food. So if you want her to be your girlfriend, you should do it.”

Chloe looks at me with parental gravity, while Maggie shoots me an apologetic, slightly-embarrassed look.

“Yeah. Sure,” I say, trying to make it sound sarcastic for Maggie’s benefit, though when they turn to leave, I look down at the red lemon-shaped pasta, and feel a strange sense of contentment. Maybe the kid is right. Maybe Willow will appreciate it.

And judging by the way she ran off like Cinderella last night at the club, I feel like I could use all the help I can get.