this is for Aaron.
Dynamic Marking:Cresendo

An email from John. He is just a man I met online, last year we were both looking for a place to live in the saturated San Francisco. He a cocky arrogant chef who talkes way too much, but has an uncanny, beautiful way of listening. I think it was his subject line, which read. Chef looking for a place to hang his knives, which got my attention. John still has the side burns, which make him look like an Irish Wolverine, but now he lives in a fancy loft home on Folsom and 11th, I like that he enjoys the irony of himself in another man's dream home. I emailed him out of the blue the other day, and within his witty reply an invitation to dinner.
Phone call:
Simple steak and potatoes, he says, you bring the wine.
I had the perfect bottle. Ron's home brew. I could only open it for the most discerning palate, I wanted it enjoyed, and I wanted to be able to tell Ron something constructive and true about his passion, I knew the five star french/sushi chef would tell me the truth.
We greet as old friends, and let the wine breathe. John pan fries brussel sprouts, sweet potatoes, and some fancy onion in beef fat. I'm entranced. He flips dinner with a flick of his wrist toasting the bite sized rosemary smudged game.
I want him to cook for me. I want quail, wild boar, roasted turnips. The flash and tick of the gas stove, I want him to drag me through a herb garden, palm a lemon in his hand and dribble just the right amount, because he knows. I want the cup he fingers a pinch of salt to be my hand. No wonder he's an arrogant prick! I smile and ask for more. The steaks are peppered he heats the pan and it begins to smoke, more lard is added to the pan, it doesn't burn like butter, it seers in his conversation. The wine is poured. We taste. It needs to breathe more he says and I obey, letting the glass open to the evenings dinner, which has already seasoned the kitchen. The vegetables are placed in the oven at 400 degrees. The salad is wild arugula, and endigia, the dressing is blanched scallions, a shallot, lemon juice, later toasted pumpkin seeds. Gently he lays the two triangular steaks into the pan, the fan is switched on , I breathe deeply. The equations kitchen, chef, guest, aired wine, it's to perfection Ron, and medium-rare meat. To add to his pride, and my abandon to the whole evening, he slices my 130 degree and lays it on a tasty bed. No meal complete without a rolled cigarette by the hearth.

I can't tell if that was directions or instructions. Later in the evening we get to talking and he introduces me to The Sandman, this is my new read. The conversations thicken.