He stared at her. “Honey-chipotle? That sounds like a dance I don’t know.”
Earl picked up his knife and fork. He cut a piece of waffle. Then a piece of chicken. He skewered them together on the fork—one bite, two worlds.
When it arrived, it was a sight to behold. Three golden-brown fried chicken tenders, crispy and craggy, laid across a thick, buttermilk waffle with deep square wells. A little metal pitcher of warm honey-chipotle syrup steamed on the side. A ramekin of baked apples sat next to it like a quiet apology.
Then he looked at Maya, and his eyes were wet—not from the chipotle, but from something older. “Your grandma,” he said quietly, “used to make fried chicken on Saturdays. And waffles on Sundays. I never once asked her to put them together.”