Elizabeth Zott was not a woman who believed in accidents.
Not a consolation pie. A demonstration pie. A rhubarb and sodium citrate pie, with a lattice crust woven so tightly it looked like a molecular diagram.
“Then perhaps refrain from making definitive statements about states of matter.” She set the pie on his desk. “Rhubarb. The citrate keeps the fruit from turning to mush. Much like accuracy keeps a mind from turning to dogma.”
“Was it incorrect?” asked Elizabeth.
That night, Mad sat at the kitchen table, holding a frozen bag of peas to her eye. “Was I wrong to correct him?”