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Namjoon stared at the array of ingredients before him with near-lethal intensity.
“Alright Namjoon-ah, focus, you can do this.”
The tomatoes didn’t look so sure.
“You’ve watched video after video, read the entirety of Salt, Fat, Acid, Heat, and you are capable of great things.”
Silence from the bell peppers.
“You’re going to put Gordon Ramsay to shame!” he exclaimed, pumping his fist in the air excitedly before his expression morphed into something akin to horror. He looked around like he might be smote from the sheer thought of such blasphemy.
“Okay, maybe not put him to shame, but maybe not be put between two slices of bread and called an idiot sandwich?”
The steak could sense his fear, he was sure of it.
He sighed, swiping the ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron Seokjin had gotten him and Jimin as an engagement gift from the counter where it lay. He recalled coming home one day to find Jimin in the kitchen, impishly wearing the small covering, high heels, and nothing else as he sat Namjoon in a chair and asked him to keep him company while he prepared dinner. The corner of Namjoon’s mouth turned up at the memory.
Namjoon would be keeping his clothes on , thank you very much, but he was going to make dinner for his fiance.
Jimin knew his ineptitude in the kitchen, so he went to great lengths to keep Namjoon as far away from that room of the house as possible. But Namjoon wanted to spoil his lover, who had been away for a week on a business trip and was coming home tonight. He wanted to welcome Jimin back to their abode with a home-cooked meal, all the trappings of sticky-sweet domesticity that he deserved.
He just had to figure out how not to start a fire in the process.
He pulled the apron over his head and fumbled with the strings behind his back as he tried to tie them into a bow. He ended up getting a finger stuck in the loops.
‘That’s okay,’ he thought, ‘a knot is as good as any bow! No one here but me, no need to be fancy.’
His eyes returned to the colorful spread on the granite countertop. He’d gone to the farmer’s market that morning, had the vendors help him select the most prime pickings for his cooking adventure. His gaze roamed over the variegated heirloom tomatoes, the waxy surfaces of the bell peppers, the cragged surface of the carrots, the little buds of broccoli. He admired the marbling of the steaks, hand-selected as the choicest cuts by the butcher from whom he had made his purchase. He looked at the potatoes, freshly scrubbed and lined up in a row, just waiting to be peeled and cooked.
He had decided to try his hand at a traditionally American meal. He knew Jimin would have eaten all of the finest Korean foods over the past week of his trip, so he’d made up his mind to welcome him home with a little unexpected flavor.
And this was a meal Namjoon thought he could handle. Ribeye steaks with a side of mashed potatoes and roasted vegetables. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
His face stretched into a grin as he imagined Jimin, eagerly stuffing his mouth with bite after delicious bite of Namjoon’s cooking - the labor of his love.
What was that saying about the way to a man’s heart being through his stomach?
Namjoon was determined to make this a meal to remember.
With that thought, he carefully laid out his recipes, printed and laminated just for the occasion. He read the instructions once again, making note of the areas where he thought he’d have trouble. At this point, he probably had them memorized, but he just had to be sure that everything was in order and he was as prepared as possible for the task ahead.
Having read the cards once more, he went over to the sink to wash his hands, drying them on a dishtowel he decided to sling over his shoulder for added flair (it kind of made him feel like he wasn’t a total cooking virgin, okay?).
He eyed the clock—two and a half hours until Jimin was home.
True, that all of the recipes could likely be accomplished in under an hour by someone more experienced—but Joon was not taking any chances, doubling the estimated total time for each recipe just in case. He figured that if he finished prepping the veggies early, there was nothing wrong with letting them sit for a minute. Better that than trying to make up for lost time by maneuvering a knife more quickly than he should and losing a finger.
He nodded to himself, pleased with his plan of action. He picked up a potato, the oblong root scratchy against his palm as he brandished the peeler in front of it, pausing there as he felt the nerves start to kick in.
He had plenty of time, he’d just take it slow.
He carefully held the tuber, bracing it on either side with fingers that he hid away as much as possible from the deceptively innocent peeler blade. Bringing that glimmering edge to the top of the potato, he ever so slowly pushed it down the vegetable until he had one (1) slick, white, exposed potato surface and one (1) peeled potato skin.
It went on like that for an agonizing amount of time, each peeled potato being a hard-earned win for the novice chef.
Once the potatoes had all moved from their regimented row on the counter to their naked regimented row on the cutting board, Namjoon let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
Now for the chopping.
Unskilled fingers slid along the slippery surface of the potatoes as he carefully sawed at them. Remembering himself (and all the ‘how to peel and dice potatoes’ YouTube videos he’d watched), he abandoned the frantic sawing motion for a nice, even press down with the blade of the knife.
Shuk!
Success! Now he only had to do that about a million more times before the potato bits would be ready for their nice, boiling bath.
And thus the chopping commenced, the punctuated ‘ shuk! shuk!’ of his knife against the cutting board interrupted only by his frequent and enthusiastic self-pep talks.
He even celebrated a little bit when he made the last stroke of the blade and had no visible wounds to show for it.
The mental wounds, however, would be slow to heal. He’d managed okay, but had a fine sheen of sweat covering his brow the whole time, occasionally running down a temple as he hyperfocused on the placement of his fingers in relation to the blade as he tried to keep them from the fate of the veggies.
He could probably go his entire life without chopping vegetables again. He figured that would be alright with him.
The chime of the old grandfather clock in the living room greeted his ears - an hour had passed.
He’d been expecting to hear it sooner. He was ahead of schedule.
He smirked to himself, feeling quite pleased with his progress.
Grabbing a large stockpot from underneath the counter, he whistled to himself as he made his way over to the sink. He filled the pot with water, added some salt, and set it on the eye of the stove, feeling damn near invincible as he commandeered the kitchen.
He re-focused his attention on the recipe for the roasted vegetables. They were to bake at a rather high temperature, he thought, but not for long. Namjoon would be lying if he said he wasn’t a smidge bit anxious at the thought of working with the oven. His mind helpfully supplied him with flashbacks of terror-ridden incidents of Jimin opening the oven door when Namjoon wasn’t expecting it. The sweltering heat would rush out of the oven and attack him, causing him to throw his arms up in a wild flail as he yelped out his surprise. Jimin would just laugh every time, barely managing to set whatever was hot out of the heated-death-cube on the counter before he was falling to the floor in stitches over Namjoon’s reaction. Namjoon half thought he did it on purpose.
No matter. He would best the beast today.
He tapped the buttons until he set the oven to preheat to the correct temperature, having to start the process over several times as he fumbled with the controls.
It could probably smell fear.
It beeped ominously to let him know it was warming up, and he backed away quickly to start readying the star of the night’s show: the meat.
Namjoon had spared no expense on the steaks. In fact, he was almost certain he’d been overcharged, the vendor sensing he was clueless and tacking on a few more than a few extra won. That didn’t matter. Even if all else failed, he was determined to make the steak an otherworldly culinary experience for Jimin.
He grunted as he lifted the heavy, well-loved (by Jimin) cast iron onto the stove, noting with displeasure that the water for his potatoes wasn’t boiling yet. Surely, it should have at least been simmering by now, tiny bubbles stuck to the bottom of the pot indicating that the stove was on and things were heating up.
He poked his head over the rim - nothing.
He grabbed the pot by the handles, moving it to the side, and plopped his right hand directly on the eye of the stove—it was cold. (In hindsight, that had been a HORRIBLE and DANGEROUS thing to do. He chastised himself and felt a tiny bit of gratitude that the thing wasn’t on).
Scooting the stockpot back into position, he made sure to turn on the heat this go round. He shook his head as he heard the clock chime again, signaling the half hour.
There was still time. No need to panic yet.
With as much grace as he’d done anything all day, Namjoon peeled up the tape from the brown wrapping of one of the steaks. Unfortunately, the tape stuck to his finger in the process, causing the steak to tumble over itself again and again until it rolled free from its confines and plopped onto the floor with a wet ‘smack!’ in a way that in any other circumstance, he might have found amusing.
Today, it was nothing short of horrifying.
His eyes bugged out in disbelief as he stared at the meat—settling, making itself comfortable on the floor after its big adventure. His mouth gaped as he eyed the butcher paper, floating innocently in the gentle breeze from the A/C and still attached by a measly piece of masking tape to Namjoon’s finger.
He wasn’t going to feed his fiance floor meat .
Panicked thoughts raced through his mind so quickly he wasn’t able to settle on a singular one to freak out over; instead, he felt the general chaos of it all come together to a horrible, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He groaned, miserably, as he took in his loss. He was less concerned over the cost (though, god , it had been a lot of money) and more concerned over the fact that he’d lost a whole steak.
He tried, really tried, to think rationally, but all he could manage was a pitiful whine of “What do I do, what do I do?”
Through some serious pondering, he finally figured that the cuts of meat he got were large enough that he could cut the remaining one in half and still have plenty of steak for the both of them. He resolved to do some more serious pondering later, when he had the time, about why he was the way that he was.
Much more carefully this time, he peeled the tape back and unwrapped his one remaining suitable slab of meat, seasoning it with salt and pepper (he wasn’t trying to get too crazy) before turning the knob on the stove to get the cast iron heating up. He’d learned enough by watching Jimin to know that preheating the skillet was a must.
Once it was to temperature, he added the butter to let it melt, before carefully picking up the steak and lowering it into the pan.
Nothing could have prepared him for the hot sizzle or the way the butter popped onto his skin, burning him in tiny flecks of white-hot pain. He yelped, backing away from the pan, the stove, the oven, and wondered how in the hell some people did this every day.
And he still had to get the potatoes in the pot and veggies in the oven.
The potatoes weren’t too bad. He’d learned a valuable lesson from the steak going into the pan, so he stood as far back as possible and tried not to let the potatoes plop into the water too aggressively to avoid any boiling water splashing out. With that success, he was left with nothing more to do than the vegetables. He eyed the oven warily. It was up to temperature. He could avoid it no longer.
Letting out a long, tired sigh, he gathered all his confidence and opened the oven door, jumping away quickly to avoid the ominous heat wave and only scurrying back to put the roasting pan in and slam the oven door shut.
This was what he’d determined would be the hardest part—multitasking while minding the time.
It was just as hard as he’d thought, but he managed, the pot only boiling over once, his hand only getting burned from touching the cast iron four times (it might sound like a lot, but honestly, he was expecting worse).
Perfection had been a lot to aim for.
After the steak was removed from the pan and resting, potatoes were mashed, and veggies were out of the oven, he figured he only had another five or ten minutes before Jimin was home. He'd decided that he would slice the steak before putting it on the plate for presentation purposes. That hadn’t been part of his initial plan, but it might help hide the fact that there was only one steak to split between the two of them. He made careful cuts against the grain, the way the YouTube video showed, and was pleased when it didn’t come out looking mauled.
The plates...left a little to be desired. The meat looked decent, but he had no clue what to do with the potatoes, so he just kind of...slapped some on there. The roasted vegetables were more...blackened than he’d hoped for, but they’d stopped smoking quickly once they came out of the oven, which he was thankful for.
Through some sort of sixth sense, he felt Jimin’s presence a moment before he heard the key turn in the lock and the door pushed open.
“I’m ho—WHAT’S BURNING?! NAMJOON, WHAT’S BURNING?”
Jimin’s pounding footfalls could be heard as he ran from the entryway into the kitchen, sliding to a halt and catching himself on the doorframe so he didn’t fall, eyes wide open and fearful as they darted around the space, trying to find the flames that were the source of the smell.
“Hi, babe,” Namjoon said sheepishly, “welcome home.”
Jimin’s gaze settled on Namjoon, as he finally calmed down enough to take in the scene around him.
His fiance. A disaster kitchen. Two humble plates of....food?
“You… you cooked,” he said, not quite able to form coherent thoughts yet.
“I did—well, I tried, anyway.”
“But nothing’s on fire,” said Jimin, brow furrowed as he searched for clarification on that one, very important point.
“No, no! The vegetables just got a little too hot in the oven.”
The corner of Jimin’s mouth twisted up at this, amusement playing in his eyes. “Were you afraid to get them out, Joonie?” he teased.
Namjoon huffed, offended. “No,” he started, crossing his arms and tilting his chin up, “I just got busy with the other dishes.”
“Ah, I see.”
God, Namjoon had missed him.
Clearly, Jimin was thinking the same as he hop-skipped the few steps over to Namjoon and launched himself into his arms, wrapping his legs around his waist and burying his nose into the older’s neck, breathing him in after what felt like an eternity apart.
“Missed you,” he murmured as Namjoon’s arms wrapped protectively around him.
“Missed you more.”
Once Jimin had untangled his limbs and extricated himself from Namjoon’s body, he planted a chaste kiss on his lips before turning around slowly, taking in the absolute war zone around him.
“Come eat.” Namjoon offered a hand, which Jimin took almost immediately as he was led to the dining room. A chair was pulled out for him, and he flushed at the sweet gesture as it was pushed back toward the table as he sat down. He took a nervous glance at the food, afraid of what he’d find. To his surprise, it didn’t look half bad. Namjoon had even set out a bottle of Jimin’s favorite wine, one that would pair well with the meat, and had chosen the appropriate glasses for it.
Jimin turned to look over his shoulder at the other, raising his eyebrows in surprised delight.
“I haven’t tasted anything,” he admitted, “and the vegetables are...err...a little charred—that’s probably what you smelled when you came in. But I did my best. I—I wanted you to have something nice to come home to. You always cook delicious meals for me. I feel bad that I’ve never really returned the favor.”
Jimin chuckled softly, taking Namjoon’s hand in his own, wincing and loosening his grip as he noticed the burn marks on his skin. “Baby, you didn’t have to cook for me. You don’t ever have to cook for me. I enjoy cooking for you—it’s a way I like to show my love. But that doesn’t mean that you have to do it. You show your love in so many other ways. Besides, the kitchen isn’t exactly the safest place for you,” he said, emphasizing his statement with a pointed glance at the pinkish discolorations of Namjoon’s hand. “But thank you. I can tell you put a lot of effort into this, and it means a lot to me. It looks delicious,” and, though there was a tinge of disbelief in his voice, he sounded like he meant it.
Namjoon’s cheeks heated at the praise as he poured their glasses of wine, setting the bottle back down on the table with a loud ‘thunk’. Jimin thanked him as he lifted the first bite of steak to his mouth.
Jimin chewed slowly, thoughtfully, Namjoon watching in rapt fascination, cataloging each expression that crossed his fiance’s face and unable to determine the verdict. He quickly loaded up his own fork and chewed, pausing a moment when it hit him that the steak tasted…sweet?
Puzzled, he ate a bite of the potatoes—they, too, tasted sweet.
Jimin’s expression was pensive as he swallowed. “Mmmmm,” he mused, “it’s cooked perfectly!" A long silence. "What...what did you use to season it?”
Namjoon stood abruptly, thighs knocking into the table and rattling the utensils and glassware dangerously. He steadied it before heading into the kitchen, returning with a jar filled with white granules.
Jimin looked back and forth between Namjoon and the jar in his hands.
“Namjoon,” Jimin started evenly, “baby that’s sugar.”
“Oh,” was all Namjoon managed.
“It’s not bad, though!” Jimin amended. “It’s good! Just unexpectedly sweet is all.” He smiled gently.
“The… the potatoes. They’ll also be sweet,” Namjoon admitted in a small voice.
Jimin laughed, thoroughly endeared. “That’s okay. I’m sweet, too.” He winked and Namjoon found himself at ease, eternally grateful for his fiance’s ability to find the good in everything.
They went to taste the vegetables together, even clinking their forks against each other in a mock ‘cheers’ for the tasting. Namjoon’s mouth puckered immediately, the vegetables acrid and charred, sour. Jimin’s face was schooled into a very blank expression, but his eyes were watering, giving him away.
Namjoon truly had no clue what he’d done to mess up this bad.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, please spit that out.” He was frantic, handing Jimin a napkin to spit out the veggies after doing so himself, chasing the taste with potatoes and plenty of wine. Jimin swallowed, looking pained.
“No, no, that’s alright. I’m not quite sure how those managed to turn out like that, but who needs vegetables anyway?”
Namjoon held his head in his hands, mortified and disappointed.
“Hey,” said Jimin, softly, reaching for Namjoon’s wrist to gently pull it away from his face. “Do you remember when we moved in together? The meal I made to celebrate that we’d gotten everything unpacked?”
“How could I forget? You made my favorite.”
“Did you know that I made it twice?”
“Huh?”
Jimin’s eyes were wide, honest. “I made the dish twice. The first one turned out so awful that I had to throw it away. It was inedible. I didn’t want to tell you and I didn’t want you to know, so I tossed it out behind a bush at the back of the house.”
“You what? ” Namjoon couldn’t believe his ears. Here was Jimin—perfect, domestic Jimin—admitting to a cooking failure.
“It’s true.” Jimin laughed at the memory. “It was so bad. I had worked so hard, too. It was devastating to have to throw it out.”
Namjoon smiled, just the tiniest bit.
“And you wouldn’t believe how many abysmal dishes I’ve made over the years,” he continued. “This is just your first attempt, and I know for a fact you’ve never really been in a kitchen, so I’m amazed that you got the steak cooked just right and the potatoes at the perfect consistency.”
“You and my mother both try to keep me out of the kitchen as much as possible,” Namjoon complained, trying and failing to maintain his pout.
“It’s for your own safety, babe,” Jimin countered, eyes sparkling with mischief. He leaned across the table to plant a kiss on Namjoon’s lips. “Thank you for dinner. I might start letting you in the kitchen more often. I think you have potential.”
Namjoon laughed, a little shy. “Thank you. I think I’d like to learn. Maybe even try to cook again one day.”
They both laughed at that.
“I can’t believe I ruined the vegetables. I wanted to feed the love of my life a well-balanced meal.”
“That’s okay,” Jimin said, eyes darkening. “I consider my fiance to be a well-balanced meal.”
“Are you going to eat me instead?”
Namjoon watched as he took a long sip of wine without breaking eye contact, jawline prominent and strong.
“Hmm,” Jimin said, setting the glass down carefully as he considered the man in front of him. “I'll have you for dessert.”