If you've ever heard of the Five Languages of Love theory, I must ad a sixth one (which can either be a 'service' or 'gift' one), and that is cooking food. And it's one that Scotsman excels at.

About 2-3 times per month, he gets a bug in his ear that he wants to make me dinner. It's usually a lot of high-quality ingredients and several dishes that you'd normally only get at shishi restaurants.

I cannot eat this well regularly, or I will weigh 300 pounds. Because it's so damned tasty that I just eat everything he puts on the plate. And he plates it so prettily, too! Just check out the meal he made for me last night:

That's two different steaks (one with a beff/roasted garlic/mushroom reduction topping, one with homemade white truffle butter topping it), roasted new potatoes with rosemary and parsley, a mix of roasted carrots, and shrimp ceviche. One word: nom.

So I'm declaring the making of food as an official expression of love (and thankfully, a language we have in common, though he's better at it than I am).

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