Linda Rogers stole all the family recipes, secrets, sacred cows, and skeletons and put them in the meat grinder her first husband gave her for processing poetry. She dispensed with him (the same grinder) but kept the appliance. Great writing, like cooking, is about assembling the best ingredients, climbing on the roof and trusting your cape. She raised three kids and undermines their gravitas with her socially unassailable grandchildren (all anarchists). They all turn out. Her bread turns out. Her cookies turn out. Ditto the poems, novels, songs, and non-fiction pieces . . . nothing burned yet.