Home cooking, the kind done in a cozy kitchen, was nothing Peggy had grown up experiencing. Her father was always busy and her mother at loose ends with domestic tasks, leaving the heavy lifting of cooking and cleaning to the household staff; that was, assuming the family wasn't otherwise engaged at some party or event, where dinner was beautiful but contained about as much substance as a mouthful of foam. It made moments like this one all the more charming to watch, because Peggy had clearly inherited her mother's talents when it came to the kitchen. She was well-intentioned but absolutely hopeless, so it was a good thing that delivery was available at every hour in the Capitol or she might've starved by now.
Not literally. It was a poor joke to make in a place like this one, and Peggy never turned her nose up at any effort made on her behalf. She'd been in and out and around 8 for years now, and Steve's little apartment was more him than the house he tended to avoid. She counted it as meaningful that they'd ended up here, with something familiar and homey on the menu, rather than any of the trendy restaurants in the Capitol. This was comfortable.
Or it would be, right up until she had to mention Steve's bruised face, his still-swollen eye, or how she'd already endured a few dozen smug, mocking messages about her pet Victors' latest faux pas.
She sat back a little to make room for the plates, glass nudged aside so there was no chance of accident or spill, and smiled fondly at his apparent nerves. It seemed cruel to delay when he was waiting on pins and needles for her verdict on the meal, so she didn't hesitate to take a bite (after some judicious care not to end up burning her tongue). First taste swallowed, she gently bumped her knee into his beneath the table. "It's fantastic," she assured, expression soft. "You've outdone yourself." Pausing, she made a brief show of glancing around. "And nothing's on fire. I'd call dinner a success."