(The scent of aromatics through the air, the comforting warmth of the stove against his back. He can't help but smile, even as he washes pan after plate, arms covered in soap and suds. This was his kitchen, he knew every inch. In it, he was content and comfortable, making delicacy, classic, and experiment alike. He can't help but hum, singing some old Irishman's love song, his low voice filling the kitchen.) Oh, my love said to me, "Will you meet me by the sea?"
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