fel dreams

Anotherhappystevebingo fill; here's my card .

Cooking

Steve has never been much of a cook. Growing up during a depression (the Great, Steve's read these days, and he's got no idea what was great about it except it was horrible to live through), food wasn't so much about the taste and presentation as not starving. The serum and the army and War World 2 didn't change much--Steve's lived with hunger his whole life, has always had it gnawing at him, so much so he's long since learned how to ignore it. He eats because he needs it, and he eats well because he can now. But cooking? Well, he's still not really figured that out; his comfort food is sure something different from the excess of food available these days.

Steve's from a different era. That's all.

Sam, though--Sam can cook. Steve likes to watch him in the mornings, shirt stretching across his shoulders, music playing on the counter, and he moves with the music as he flips pancakes and fries eggs. Where Steve only cooks for the fuel, cooking to Sam seems like an art--the careful tilt of a pan for omelettes, and easy and unmeasured (but never, ever too much) dollop of butter into the grits, a sixth sense for when to get the bacon out of the pan.

"This is great," Steve will say, and Sam, always always always, "Just like momma makes. Or close enough," with an easy laugh, and Steve knows, in these moments, just how important food can be, and he wishes he had that connection to it Sam so clearly does.

Steve never tells Sam that. Instead, he tries to make that connection now, with Sam; better late, after all, than never.