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kitchen table, across from Jon’s empty seat. He stood at the kitchen bar, pulling white cartons from a large brown bag.
    “That smells SO good,” Emma said, clapping. “What are we having?”
    “Cantonese,” Jon said.
    “Is that like Chinese?” she asked. “It smells like Chinese, and looks like it.” She pointed to the cartons Jon was lining along the bar.
    “Yes,” he said, scooping a small pile of honey garlic spareribs onto a plate for Emma. “Cantonese is a lot like Chinese. Actually, Cantonese is Chinese, just more specific.”
    “What’s the difference?” Emma asked, scrunching her nose with interest as Houser petted her head. He looked near drooling — easy to do with the smells pluming out from the cartons.
    “Chinese food, like the kind you get at Panda Express or places like that … ” Jon paused, looked over at Emma and asked, “Have you ever eaten at Panda Express?”
    “Twice,” she nodded. “In Seattle.”
    “Well, that’s not real Chinese. A lot of those dishes you couldn’t even really get in China, unless you went to a restaurant intended for tourists. Cantonese is the real deal, a way to order Chinese food without getting Chinese-American. It’s mild, with fresher ingredients. Places like Panda use cornstarch to make their sauces, Cantonese uses natural flavors so the finished dish is still delicious, but without being too greasy. Try it, you’ll love it.”
    Jon carried Emma’s plate — piled high with a buffet’s worth of choices — from the bar to the table and set it in front of her.
    Emma eyed her mountain of food, then started with the salt and pepper prawns, stabbing one of the deep-fried shells, then tearing into the orange tinted shrimp. She held it in her mouth and smiled.
    “So?” Jon said, eyebrows raised.
    She chewed, then swallowed and said, “It’s crunchy, and a little spicy. Definitely better than Panda.”
    “I should hope so,” Jon smiled, then went to serve Houser.
    “Would you hurry, Hollywood? I’m starving. And no shrimp for me, thanks.” He turned to Emma. “You know shrimps are just roaches of the sea, don’t you?”
    Emma laughed. “Cassidy says that.”
    “I knew I liked her,” Houser said, then started back in on Jon. “So, are you ever planning to cook a meal in this big fancy kitchen, or is everything you eat gonna come from a bag?”
    “Ask me after I’ve tried every place on the island.”
    “You mean every place that delivers.”
    Jon smiled, tried not to feel like an asshole, and said, “They all deliver, if you pay enough.” He handed Houser a plate, filled with everything but shrimp, then went back to grab his own, which he had served alongside Houser’s. “I don’t hear you complaining when Emma’s not around.”
    “I’m not complaining now, just asking.”
    He sat across from Houser and Emma. “I get the arguments about not eating out,” Jon said. “I just don’t buy them. It’s expensive, you don’t know what’s in your food, it’s easy to overeat, bad for the environment, blah, blah, blah. Well, expensive doesn’t matter — not to sound like a jerk, but it’s true. I’m very clear about what I ask for in my food, and I’m content that my family gives hundreds of millions of dollars to the environment. That gives me license to toss a few containers. Besides, I don’t want to start cooking.”
    “Why not?” Houser and Emma said together.
    “Because I know I’ll love it, and am sure I’ll get obsessive. When I really like something, it’s all I want to do. I’ll want to take lessons and do nothing but cook. Right now, I’d rather be obsessive about spending time with you.” He winked at Emma.
    She blushed, then changed the subject. “ I’m a really good cook.”
    “Oh?” Jon raised his eyebrows. “What’s your best dish?”
    “Tortilla Pizza,” she said without wasting a second. “Definitely.”
    Jon and Houser both laughed. Jon said, “How do you make that?”
    “It’s easy!