Steve wasn't much of a cook, but one dish he could make without fail was his Ma's shepherd's pie. It had been a staple in their home growing up, mostly because it was incredibly easy to make alterations. Steve's favorite version involved beef, but that had been a rarity growing up. More often than not, whatever meat went into the shepherd's pie had been unrecognizable, the odds and ends of whatever they'd been able to scrape together enough money for from the butcher's shop. In the really lean months, the vegetables got cut with breadcrumbs, and the layer of mashed potatoes grew thinner and thinner, the gravy watered down and utterly lacking in the richness that made the dish so hearty and flavorful.
Now though, Steve had the money for better ingredients, and by the time the pie was nearly done cooking, his kitchen had filled with the warm, tantalizing scent of herbs and gravy, vegetables and meat - everything that made up the sense memory of "comfort food."
Of course, as soon as Peggy walked in the door and Steve caught sight of her, as lovely and put together as always, he was struck by the sudden worry that this wouldn't be good enough for her. It was an unfair thought, because for all she'd grown up with wealth and relative luxury, Peggy had never once given him the impression that she expected that level of comfort, or that she thought simpler things were beneath her. The fact that they were at Steve's apartment rather than the house set aside for him in Victor's Village was evidence of that. Still, the thought of serving her shepherd's pie suddenly seemed horribly quaint.
Or maybe Steve was fixating on that concern because he didn't want to think about the conversation they were going to have to have about the latest rumors making the rounds, or the fact that he'd gone and done something rash and reckless yet again, and maybe this was going to be the time she finally decided she'd had enough.
He'd been quiet upon her arrival, offering her a crooked smile as he poured her a glass of wine (a red he thought he remembered her having sought out at some party or another) and asked if her trip had gone smoothly. Then she was at the table, sitting and watching as he took the pie out of the oven, its savory scent wafting across the kitchen as he set it on the stovetop.
"It's not much," Steve said quickly, his back to her as he grabbed a trivet and slid it beneath the casserole dish, his oven-mitted hand holding it steady. "But it's the only thing I can really cook well, and I didn't want to risk trying something new only to mess it up." He probably could have figured out how to sear some steaks though, right? Or fish, maybe, fish couldn't be that hard to make.
It was too late now, anyway, and Steve brought the dish over to the already set table, quickly cutting out two squares and dishing one out for Peggy, the other for himself.
His kitchen table was small and square, and he sat down at the spot on Peggy's left, because the eye that had been blackened was his left one, and maybe this way it wouldn't be quite so visible. That actually sounded pretty good to him, getting through dinner without having to actually acknowledge that his face bore unmistakable evidence of his most recent mistakes.
"I hope you enjoy it," Steve said, and then he promptly busied himself with pouring a glass of wine for himself, because somehow the thought of waiting and watching while she took a first bite of his Ma's shepherd's pie was excruciating.