5:25pm

Amos Lee was playing...somewhere in another room he came out of a round gray speaker that filled the rest of the place with warm background noise...

Potatoes

What?

I love potatoes...carrots...celery and beans.  Her voice reminded him of a vinyl record song...something rare, like an old dialect...he loved the way it felt in his ears.

I have plenty of potatoes he said, over his shoulder.

In the kitchen he had made the broth, using bones and butter and onions and celery...some liquid beef gelatin to hasten the process but otherwise it was water and love...

The meat was out, coming to room temperature...outside it sounded like a storm but between the music and her words he couldn't tell...didn't care...inside was warm and infused with the smell of comfort.  Home.

She was working, staring at her computer like a mystery...a pencil tucked in an ear.  Glasses on to see better.  This image made him want to be perfect...make the perfect mood, make the perfect dinner...perfect meal.

He poured oil into the pan and turned up the heat...when it started rippling he added the roast...immediately hearing the alchemy of searing...darkening it and a slight smoke arose to join the mood in the room.  Already salted and peppered, the roast sizzled and she arched her head up a little...smells good.  She then stuck her nose back into the screen and resumed working.

He looked at the clock...5:25pm.

In cooking, like perhaps any other intimacy, it is the combination of ingredients, it is the perfect set of temperatures, it is the blending...the reduction...the salt gently added for taste...to him, it was her.  That when they touched, whether the swipe of a finger against hers, or the interlock of fingers, or even better the taste of her tongue, the reaction was very similar to the ingredients changing...he literally changed when combined with her...he reduced noise, pressure...he became calmer, more sedate.  But his blood boiled and yearning spread throughout him...and here, about 15 feet away from her it was like a slow preparation that he could already feel happening.

The white of the onions the color of her one skirt she would wear...like almost a dare...it was tantalizing short and pure on her...the orange of the carrots a scarf she once wore...the dark stew base was her eye color, shimmering from the heat...comfort food they called it.

He knew exactly why.