It wasn’t just an odor of slightly over-cooked food when Blake opened the door. There was a distinctive smell of charcoal. As I held out wine and flowers as host gifts, I glanced beyond his shoulder, and I thought the kitchen air looked hazy with smoke. I wondered if Blake already disconnected the smoke alarm.

As I wrinkled my nose from the acrid smell of the smoke, Blake sheepishly reached for the bottle of wine, and he asked a question with the one word, “Pizza?”

I reached for his shoulder and said, “That’s definitely possible. Did something go wrong in the kitchen?

His shoulders slumped with a heavy wracking sigh, “Everything went wrong in the kitchen. I don’t know if I should let you see it.”

I waved a hand in front of my face and said, “I’m surprised your smoke alarm isn’t going off.” He shrugged, and I asked, “You do have a working smoke alarm, don’t you?”

Reaching the hand further behind his shoulder, I gave Blake a hug. He said, “It’s a disaster in the kitchen. Really, a pizza is fine, or we could go out.”

Pulling back and looking into his eyes, I said, “Would it be okay if I looked to see if I can figure out a way to salvage a decent meal? I’m pretty good in the kitchen.”

He turned toward the kitchen to lead the way while he mumbled something about it seeming like I was good at everything. Even in distress, Blake looked good. I wanted to give him a kiss to try and make him feel better, but that would make the entire evening a whole lot more complicated.

A light cloud of smoke hung in the air of Blake’s kitchen. I pointed at the window over the sink and asked, “Can you open that. It would be good to get some of this smoke out of here. You could even open the kitchen door for a little while.”

Blake leaned over the sink and pushed the window open. A welcome burst of fresh air swept into the space. The oven door was still hanging open, and I pushed the button to turn it off and then peered inside. There was something that resembled a casserole. The top surface had turned nearly black. Blake stepped up behind me and said, “That was supposed to be chicken and rice.”

I said, “Hand me an oven mitt.” He passed one in front of me, and I pulled the casserole out of the oven and placed the dish in the sink with the burnt brownies saying, “We’ll clean that out later. Do you mind if I look in the refrigerator?”

Blake said, “There’s not much in there, but sure, you’re welcome to look. I think a pizza would be a lot easier…”

Pulling open the refrigerator door, I found what I mostly expected. Blake had a collection of condiments, an orange, and a few carrots, and a steak. He also had a half empty gallon jug of milk, orange juice, and a small tub of sour cream. I asked, “What about the steak? Were you saving that for something special?”

He chuckled softly. “No, I just thought it looked good when I was at the grocery store. I didn’t look up yet how to cook it.”

In one corner of the island in his kitchen was a nicely prepped pile of green beans. I asked, “How does steak with the green beans sound for a nice quick dinner?”

“That would be great,” said Blake.

“Do you have any potatoes?”

Blake shook his head. “Not any real ones. I just have a bag of frozen french fries in the freezer.”

Scratching my head, I said, “Well, we could turn those into something a little more special with that sour cream you have in the fridge.”

Blake laughed and said, “You’re amazing, Ian. Are you sure you’re not a real chef in disguise?”

I shook my head. “No, it’s just a lot of cooking experience and watching a lot of real chefs on TV.”

It was fun cooking in Blake’s kitchen. It was spacious, and the appliances, while a little bit dated, were good quality. He had a decent collection of dishes and cookware. Blake said, “My aunt inherited her mother’s collection of cooking stuff when she passed away a few years ago. She let me bring most of that with me when I moved in.”

He looked closely over my shoulder while I worked. “Did you do any cooking when you were growing up?” I asked.

He said, “My mom taught my sister how to cook, but she didn’t think boys and men had any business in the kitchen. We were supposed to marry a girl who knew how to cook. I was taught about cars and building things.”

“So you’re good with cars?” I asked.

My mouth curled into a slight smirk when he said, “Honestly, I was good at baseball, Ian. That was my life. I don’t think I paid attention to much of anything else. When my dad talked about cars and showed me what was what under the hood of his car, I was thinking about what my coaches were telling me about my stance in the batter’s box and keeping the ball down when I threw to first base. I did fix a flat tire once, but that’s the extent of my knowledge about cars.”

I asked, “So living in a house like this is like a whole new life?”

“It’s a completely new life, but, you know, it’s kind of fun, too. I feel like this week I’ve just caused one disaster after another, but I’ve learned a lot.”

I turned the steak over in the pan and enjoyed hearing the hot sizzle while I said, “That’s the important thing. Learning from our mistakes. I know that I’ve made a few.”

Blake leaned back against the sink in the kitchen. I couldn’t help but take a long look at him from head to foot. His legs weren’t particularly long for his height, but he had a long, lean torso. That was a perfect build for baseball. It meant that his arms were long, and he could put plenty of power behind the softball when he threw it. Those arms would also give his swing of the bat a lot of power when he finally figured out how to connect with the slow pitch properly. It also made me want to just cuddle up into his arms with them wrapped tight around me.

I shook my head briefly and returned to the steak on the stovetop. It was close to being finished to a nice medium rare. I asked, “Do you have any butter in the refrigerator?”

“I think I have one stick left,” said Blake. “Let me grab it.”

He handed me the butter on a plate with a knife. I dropped a small pat on the top of the steak to finish it off. Blake looked over my shoulder and then he leaned in lightly rubbing his body against mine.

He didn’t say anything, but there was obvious touch. I took a half step back to increase the contact. I didn’t really think about it. I just did it, and I was curious what kind of response I would receive from Blake. I wondered if he would nervously bolt to the opposite side of the kitchen.

Blake didn’t move. I thought I could hear his breathing quicken slightly, but he held his ground. I could feel his light exhaling on the side of my neck. It made the tiny hairs behind my ear stand on end.

Finally, I said, “It’s almost finished.” I pushed a thumb against the meat and said, “You can tell how done a steak is by feel.”

Blake stepped back and said, “That’s good to know.”

When I turned around, he had his arms crossed over his chest, and there was a smile on his face. Something was going through his mind about me. I thought my suspicions about Blake might be true. He was probably a little less straight than he let people think. I fought to keep my concentration on putting together great plates of food instead of wondering how Blake’s lips would taste and what his body felt like beneath his shirt.

I chopped up the frozen french fries and stirred in the sour cream making something sort of like a twice-baked potato. The green beans were cooked simply with garlic, salt, and a hint of the butter. As I composed the food on plates for each of us, I was pleased with what I saw. “Would you open the wine, Blake?” I asked.

I was wiping the edges of the plates when I heard the satisfying pop of the cork from the wine. He asked, “Can we have a toast before we sit down to eat?”

I said, “Of course.” Blake pulled wine glasses from the cupboard and poured the deep red pinot noir for each of us.

Blake raised his glass and said, “To good friends and softball.”

For once, he didn’t sound nervous. He simply sounded genuine, and it made me smile. The glasses clinked and I said, “To good friends and softball.” Then we both drank, and I watched as his Adam’s apple rose and fell.

We set our glasses on the small table in Blake’s kitchen next to the plates of food. I started to sit, and Blake exclaimed, “Oh! Almost forgot…” He dashed to the refrigerator and returned to the table with a plastic bottle of ketchup. As he began to sit, he said, “I always have it with my steak.”

Deep inside I winced, and I asked, “Would you be willing to taste a bit of the steak without the ketchup and tell me what you think?”

Blake nodded and said, “Oh sure, of course, but I’ve been eating ketchup with my steak since I was a little kid. We had it on burgers, steak, grilled cheese, bologna, french fries. It really goes with almost everything.”

I thought of heavy red glops on all sorts of quality food. My own theory was that most people used ketchup initially to disguise poorly cooked food. Then the use of it became a habit, and they never did learn how the food was supposed to taste when cooked properly.

I watched as Blake cut into the steak. He frowned. I asked, “Is something wrong?”

He said, “It’s not cooked.” Then he looked up at me and asked, “Is it?”

I said, “It’s medium rare. How do you order your steaks in a restaurant?”

Blake said, “Almost always well done. I know that’s probably not the way I’m supposed to, but it’s what I’ve always eaten.”

Shaking my head, I said, “There’s no supposed to, but would you be willing to try this? It’s medium rare. Just give it a try.”

“Without ketchup?” he asked.

I nodded. “Without ketchup.” Then he popped a bite into his mouth while gazing across the table at me. He chewed slowly at first and then his lips curled up into a smile.

After Blake swallowed that first bite, he immediately started cutting into the steak for a second. He said, “That was really good, Ian. I don’t think it needs any ketchup. It was just…really good.”

I wanted to reach across the table and cover his free hand with my fingers. A genuine, warm friendship was already developing, but I was struggling against instincts to want to push it forward to something more. Shoving those thoughts away, I said, “I’m really glad you like it. I can teach you how to cook it that way sometime.”

“Do you ever cook outside on a grill?” asked Blake.

I said “I have a gas one in my back yard.”

He said, “Oh, maybe I can come over…” Then he stopped himself, and he blushed. “I shouldn’t be inviting myself over.”

“I didn’t hear it that way, Blake. That would be fun. You could come over, and maybe I could invite Reggie and some of the other guys and we could have a nice little party.”

“That sounds like fun,” said Blake. “I think I moved into the right neighborhood.” He dug his fork into the green beans and smiled again as he tasted them. Finally, he gingerly took some of the potato concoction on his fork. It was obvious that it made him nervous. That made his big smile after the bite even more rewarding to me as the cook.

“Is it all good?” I asked.

“It’s all really good. You really should be a chef, Ian. What kind of work was it that you said you do?”

I said, “I’m an accountant. I have a number of private clients. It’s good work.”

He said, “You know, I’m going to need to be looking for a job sometime soon. I had a nice little nest egg that was a combination of money from my grandfather on my dad’s side, he owned his own company, and I got a decent signing bonus when I was drafted into the minors. That’s all running low, so I’m going to need to get a real job. It makes me a little nervous. I’m not sure exactly what I can do.”