I’d almost forgotten how in college, Pat would don an apron and whip up some amazing meal for the two of us: risotto with goat cheese, grilled steaks and asparagus, or glazed chicken with roasted veggies. My stomach cramps just from the memory of it.
Tonight is the first time since the wedding he’s been able to show off his prowess. And show it off, he is.
Jo and I are seated at the table, watching like this is Kitchen Stadium and Pat is the Iron Chef. She and I are not admiring him in quite the same way though. Jo is impressed because, aside from Big Mo and Mari, she hasn’t had much exposure with actual food preparation. Evidenced by the fact she didn’t know until five minutes ago we owned cutting boards.
Me? I’m watching Pat with an appreciation falling somewhere between the way you eye a delicious steak—what he’s fixing—and a deliciously hot man in an apron. Is it normal for a man to look so good in an apron? Or while chopping vegetables? My stomach rumbles, and I’m not sure what it’s hungrier for—the man or the dinner he’s cooking.
Oh, you’re sure, feral cat purrs. It’s definitely the man.
I don’t even bother mentally arguing with her this time. I’m beginning to concede that it’s a lost cause and I should go ahead and give her a name, slap a collar on her, and let her sleep in my bed.
“What are you doing to the steaks?” Jo asks.
“I’m seasoning them. This is sea salt with dried garlic, cracked black pepper, and a little fresh rosemary. Smell this.”
He leans closer to Jo, which brings him closer to me as well. She smells the sprig of rosemary. I smell Pat.
“Ooh, it’s like Christmas,” Jo says.
It certainly is.
She giggles as Pat tickles her nose with the rosemary. Then he turns back to the stove.
In addition to getting the toilet fixed this week, Pat went grocery shopping. We now own actual seasonings as well as a whole fridge stocked full of fresh foods. I’m still feeling uncomfortable with the expense of it all, but the man is like a freight train. Also, it’s hard to complain about a second toilet and a dinner with actual food groups.
“Now we just need to put the steaks in the oven and—huh.” Pat sets the pan of steaks back on the counter. “I swear I preheated this thing.” He fiddles with the oven controls.
“We used it recently,” I say, trying to think about the last time. “Sort of recently.”
Within a few minutes, it’s clear the oven is not working. Neither is the stovetop, where Pat had planned to sauté vegetables he’s already chopped. My stomach growls again, though it sounds a little more like it’s weeping now.
“We can get a new one tomorrow”—Pat anticipates my glare and shoots me a narrow-eyed gaze which says, try and stop me—“but that doesn’t really help us now.”
“We have a grill!” Jo says excitedly.
Pat holds out his hand and Jo gives him an animated high-five. “Yes! A grill will work. Great idea, sous chef. I’ll just need to adjust a few things. Can you grab me a stick of butter and some foil?”
“On it!” Jo scurries to grab the supplies.
“I’m not sure the grill is in the best shape.” If I haven’t used the oven in a while, I really haven’t used the grill in a long time. Maybe years.
“Is it gas or charcoal?” Pat asks. When I give him a blank stare, he smirks. “Do you turn it on with a button or add charcoal to the bottom?”
“It has buttons,” I say.
“Perfect. Hopefully, you still have propane in the tank. Jojo, help me put these veggies in this foil and then I’m going to add some butter.”