"Go to seed. Makes them bitter." I stand, brush off my hands. "I'll write down the schedule. And you'll need to thin them once they sprout."
"Thin them?"
"Remove some so the others have room to grow." I gather my notebook, sketch a quick diagram. "Like this. You're not keeping all of them."
Rogan leans over my shoulder, studying the drawing. He smells like onions and woodsmoke and something warm I can't name. I shift slightly, putting space between us.
"Got it. Thin, water, don't drown them."
"Essentially." I close the notebook. "Now let's see if you can cook them without ruining everything they represent."
His grin returns, bright and reckless. "Challenge accepted."
An hour later,the kitchen smells completely different.
Butter. Garlic. Something bright and acidic that makes my mouth water despite my best efforts to remain professionally detached.
Rogan works fast, hands moving with a confidence that wasn't there when I was interrogating him about storage. He's seared the radishes I brought—French breakfast radishes, mild and crisp—in a hot pan with butter and garlic, then deglazed with white wine and a splash of lemon juice.
"Taste." He holds out a spoon.
I hesitate. "I'm not a food critic."
"You're a person with taste buds. Try it."
I take the spoon. The radish is tender but still has bite, the bitterness mellowed by butter and brightened by acid. It's...good. Better than good.
"Not bad."
"High praise from Ivy Hale." He plates three radishes on a small dish, arranges them with a scattering of microgreens Maya produced from somewhere. Then he reaches for a squeeze bottle and starts drawing.
Oh no.
"What are you doing?"
"Plating." He draws a swoosh of sauce across the plate, adds three dots, then a drizzle that's definitely unnecessary.
"Stop."
"Almost done." He adds a final flourish, steps back to admire his work.
The radishes, which were perfectly fine on their own, now look like they've been attacked by an over-caffeinated artist. The sauce swooshes conflict with the greens. The dots are uneven. There's a smear near the rim that makes my organizational instincts scream.
"You ruined it."
"I elevated it."
"You made it look like a child's art project."
Maya snickers from her station. "She's not wrong."
Rogan picks up the plate, tilts it so the light catches the sauce. "It's got movement. Energy."
"It's got a mess." I pull my phone out, snap a photo. "This is what happens when you prioritize theater over clarity."
"Food is theater."
"Food is nourishment."
