It's like a roasted bell pepper tart

One of my husband's favorite dishes is roasted bell pepper tart. I like eating it too, but making it is a minor headache. Not roasting the bell peppers or making the pastry; actually baking the tart, which you'd think would be the easy part. It's all gooey egg goodness; but how to tell when it's done? Our cheap oven can't hold a steady temperature even with a baking stone on the bottom rack. The fact that it's still supposed to be a little soupy when it's done because the recipe calls for five post-oven minutes to "set up" is what really messes with me. I have to look at this thing and decide if it will firm up in five sitting minutes or not. I'm not good at those kinds of judgement calls. (The anxiety I have about undercooking food also explains that while I am technically the carnivore of the family, I only eat meat that other people have prepared).

All of which is just to say that I'm calling this novel "done" in the hopes that it's going to set up now, or something. I foresee some rewriting when I hear back from my critique group, but hopefully nothing too extensive. I'm considering it done enough to print the whole thing out for my husband to read, and I promised when I started this thing he'd only have to read it once; that's probably the best indication of my sense of doneness.

So I have one short story to do a little tinkering on, another that is niggling to be written, and then it's on to the next WIP, which I'll lovingly refer to as "Untitled", the YA sci-fi that's been burning in my brain for months now.