Chicken Pie

After a month of dating, Scott lured me to his place with the promise of tuna. Even though I am not a cat, this trick worked. I was very curious about our dinner because when a boy offers to cook you tuna, there's always a chance he is just going to crack open a can of tuna for dinner.

It was only then did I learn that Scott had worked in a kitchen as a teenager. And as I watched him manoeuvre his knife so swiftly – not just any knife, mind you, but his knife he's had for the last decade or so – did I realize that Scott only means serious business when he says he'll cook.

I didn't take a picture of the first dinner he made for us because I was too busy trying to keep my chill. But I was not able to maintain that juvenile pose for long. What's the point of pretending to be neutral, above it, unmoved by it? What's the point of trying to appear disengaged and apathetic? What's the point of imitating a stone or a slab of ham? Since then he's been cooking, and I've been snapping.

Here's a picture of the chicken pies we made some weeks later. He made everything from scratch! We didn't have enough pastry to completely cover both pies hence the rustic latticework.