“Smart, Mom,” Evan says. “New appliances will be gas then, too?”

“Yes,” I say, as Evan races back inside and over to the spice cabinet. He carefully considers the spices—blowing the bangs from his eyes as he picks each one up to read—before choosing cumin, chili powder and a bay leaf. He adds a dash of this and a pinch of that, tasting as he goes, before shaking in some more salt and cranking a bit more pepper, tossing the bay leaf on top.

“I feel like I’m watching Stranger Things, and a mysterious force has taken over my son’s body,” I say with a laugh, taking a sip of a lovely Malbec he also suggested at the store after scanning bottles of wine with his Vivino app.

“We all take turns cooking Sunday dinner before our weekly fraternity meeting. It’s our way of re-creating a sense of family.” Evan says this matter-of-factly. My eyes grow even wider, and he catches me. “I watch Rachael Ray, Pioneer Woman, the Barefoot Contessa,” Evan continues, tossing a dish towel over his shoulder. “When we’re not watching sports, we watch the Cooking Channel or HGTV.”

Evan grabs a large plate from the cupboard, heads to the grill, pulls the chicken from the flames and returns. “Once those cool a bit, I’ll dice them up, add them to the stoup, and we’ll be ready to chow down.”

“Stoup?”

“Rachael Ray,” he says with a laugh. “It’s her term for stew meets soup.” Evan opens the refrigerator, pulls out the sour cream, hot sauce, cheese and cilantro.

“Some of the most successful entrepreneurs today are chefs,” he says. “They’ve learned how to brand themselves so well.” He stops and looks at me, continuing to pull cilantro leaves from their stems. “And they’re women. You should be aware of what they’re doing and how.”

I take a sip of wine as Evan dices the chicken and adds it to the stoup. He gives it a big stir, picks up a soup bowl off the counter and ladles in the stoup. Evan turns and—ever so delicately—adds a dash of hot sauce, a handful of cheese, a spoonful of sour cream and a scattering of cilantro.

“Bam!” he says, imitating Emeril Lagasse’s Cajun accent. “Dinner is served.”

I wait for Evan to sit at the counter—the only clean space left to eat in the kitchen—before taking a bite. My taste buds leap, and a smile crosses my face. “Evan, this is really, really good. I mean, really good.”

“Thanks, Mom,” he says, blowing the steam off his spoonful of stoup before taking a bite. I swear I can see his cheeks flush with pride.

“Cheers!” I say.

He lifts his water glass.