I wasn’t expecting any cooking smells when I got home from work on Monday. Not coming from our apartment, anyway, and there weren’t. I hadn’t planned anything in advance and figured we’d order pizza. So I was surprised to hear Wes banging around in the kitchen when I opened the door, not to mention seeing ingredients scattered across every available space on the counters when I stepped into the kitchen.
“I’ve got it under control, I swear.” Wes’s wide eyes belied his assurances. “I’ve got a hospital trusting me to patch up patients, surely I can handle following a simple recipe, right?”
One would think, but who knew? “What’chya makin’?”
He nodded toward a recipe he’d printed off the Internet and taped to a cabinet. I read it aloud. “Ah. ‘corn cakes with summer salsa.’ That picture looks
