I made lunch. Real lunch this time. There was beef in the fridge and an entire functional kitchen at my disposal, and I had been watching cooking videos in my downtime for years.
I made a steak. Pan-seared, with butter and garlic and rosemary that was fresh, in a glass jar, on a wooden cutting board like I was a person in an ad.
The steak came out... fine. I had overcooked it slightly. The garlic had gotten more aggressive than I'd intended. I burned a finger on the pan handle because I'd forgotten that big heavy pans stay hot for a while.
But it was my burned finger, in my kitchen, eating my slightly overcooked steak, in my house, looking out at my lawn.
I ate every bite of it standing up at the island and decided this was, in fact, probably the second-best meal of my life. The first being the one Zero had cooked me in Velham with the can of corn I'd brought through.
