'Untitled' is a photo and text-based work that explores the poetics of a young mother raising a young girl.

Meredith admired the speckles of flour that had landed on her apron. The print was floral; violet and pink flower buds, small and slightly faded. She brushed the powder softly, drawing it across the arch of her thigh. She hated baking.
Z stood back from the oven as if stern concentration would turn it on. Her hands were clasped behind her, her chin tipped forward, eyes slightly narrowed. Her breath was slowly paced and expectant.
Turn the big knob slightly to the left, Meredith muttered, closing her eyes to muster all of the supportive patience available to her.
I know, Z replied.
Meredith both loved and hated moments like these, when Z would feign all of the insight of a ninety-four year old war veteran. It was a skill the girl had seemed to hone far too well during only eleven years of life.
Do you want my help, Meredith offered, thinking that this might be the nice way of expediting a mother-daughter exercise in domestic quality time.
No, Z returned. I’m checking off the list of ingredients in my head. I want to be sure that this is the batch we want to bake. No use putting them in if we won’t want what will come out.
How does the list look, inquired Meredith.
Fine, Z said.
Good enough to be upgraded into the oven?
Maybe, Z said.
Why maybe, Meredith asked. This was no longer endearing.
I think we skimped on the shortening.