Different cooks

He loved to cook; she didn't. He burned everything he made. When she actually had to cook, she worked for hours, slaving over intricate menus and completing each dish with fancy garnishes. Maybe that's why she didn't love, or even like, cooking. Everything had to be just perfect for her meals. When they ate what she cooked everyone sat at the huge oak dining room table and they had to use proper etiquette to impress their visitors. He just liked to have fun in the kitchen, experimenting with flavours and concocting new recipes. Much to her amused dismay, and his nonchalance, the recipes never worked out, though he ate them anyway and shared them with her. He'd scoop the remains of a newly-tried-out idea onto one large plate, grab two forks from the silverware drawer, and hand one to her. They squished onto one cushion of the long black leather couch and ate the destroyed food, laughed, and enjoyed each other's company. He usually made the meals . . .