The other night C insisted on cooking for me, and he showed up to my house with way more than I anticipated. He pulled everything out of his bike bags one at a time, laying them out on the table and lining them up for assessment:
Parchment wrapped blue marlin
Sirloin steak with the signature Co-Op sticker on it (which means it tastes like steak, not ammonia. GOOD SIGN.)
Talus Lodi Chardonnay (admittedly meant nothing to me at the time, but it was a perfectly sweet compliment to meal)
And a piece of Co-Op cake for later, he said. It turned out to be a white pound cake with strawberry filling and chocolate ganache.
He asked for some red onions, some lime, a little balsamic and olive oil and salt and pepper, then set to work. I pretended to help, but mostly just watched him work and gawked at the grain of the fish.
He seared everything off in my favorite pans and scrutinized the marlin for a long time before settling on the way he wanted to cut it. He whipped up a pineapple salsa for the fish and a balsamic reduction for the steak, quick steamed and sauteed the green beans, browned up the potatoes on the stove them threw them in with the rest of the glorious mess in the oven. And this is what came out.
Hot damn, this man can cook. Gotta admit, it’s not the best photo, but this meal was fantastic. So we drank our wine and talked and ate and talked and talked and ate. And I think I swooned a little bit. And then we ate the cake (which was perfect).
Then we hauled our asses down the street to the grocery store to pick up another bottle of wine, because you’re only young once, right? And we had more to talk about, and I’m pretty sure that’s impossible to do without a glass in your hand. It’s science.