a medium-sized glass bowl slides across the counter and bumps your cutting board. "once you finish deveining those shrimp, put them here."
after tying your apron tight on your waist, you salute sam. "yes, chef!"
he chuckles, looking up only briefly from where he chops a big stack of vegetables. "stop calling me that."
"why?" you pout, poking at one of the gray sea creatures before you.
"i'm not a chef."
"but look at you, all mise en place."
bowls full of spices and seafood, either pre-measured or about to be prepared, cover almost every square inch of sam's countertops. it reminds you of watching old food shows on TV, the host dumping ingredient after ingredient into a pot and revealing a perfect dish only twenty minutes later.
sam places his knife on the board and wipes his hands. his eyes scan the array, as if taking attendance. "if i don't get this right, i'll never hear the end of it from sarah."
you lift onto your tiptoes, grabbing his long shirt sleeve and dragging him toward you—your task as sous chef brushed to the side. "is there a wrong way to cook gumbo?"
"yes. if it doesn't taste like my mom and dad's." he smiles to himself, but he still looks distracted, even as you guide him into your embrace.
you place your cheek over his heart, toying idly with the chest pocket of his apron. "i wish i could have met them."
you stare at that bowl of shrimp, which mocks you.
sam isn't asking much of you. so whatever you do, it should be perfect, right?
his attention shifts to you, two strong arms bracketing your waist. "this complicated-ass gumbo recipe is all you need to know about them." his lips brush your forehead. "they worked hard and they took care of other people."
"i love you so much," you whimper, rotating into him until your nose meets his sternum. "but i don't know how to devein shrimp."
he laughs, prodding at you until you return to your workstation. "let me show you."