“At least I know you’re not over at the Gallagher’s every night for the food.” She hears the front door swing open first and then the soft but uneven pitter patter of footsteps follow. She doesn’t even need to tear her gaze away from the television to know it’s her daughter, to know it’s Alana.
“Not unless Fiona transformed into the Barefoot Contessa over the course of thirty days but even then, I think transforming into the Barefoot Contessa in thirty days or less would actually offend the Barefoot Contessa so I can only pray that Fiona Gallagher didn’t upset the Food Network Gods by trying to become the Barefoot Contessa doppelganger.”