“Left is the kitchen, here’s the living room, and on the right is my bedroom.” He points to the back of the house. “I’ve got a porch and grill out there.”

“Do you mind if I use the bathroom?”

He walks me into his bedroom. No clothes are strewed on the floor, and the bed is neatly made. “There’s one over here, on the right.”

I head inside, locking the door behind me. As I stare at myself in the mirror, my bliss is so extreme that it’s all I see. You hear about happiness shining through? Exhibit A: me. When Slade and I are good, we’re so, so good.

I reenter the kitchen to find Slade with black oven mitts, pulling food from the oven.

“Can I help?” My voice is cheery as he puts the hot glass dish over a hot plate.

He asks, “Red, white, or beer?”

“White.”

“In the fridge, and the opener is in that drawer.” He nods to where it is before pulling out extra virgin olive oil and white vinegar from a cabinet. “Would you mind grabbing me a beer?”

I open his refrigerator, shocked to see the detailed level of organization. Everything inside is fresh and organized in Tupperware containers marked: grilled chicken, grilled vegetables, meat, fried onion. On the lower level, there are larger containers filled with cut-up vegetables. Shredded cabbage and carrots. Spinach. Lots of hard-boiled eggs.

No wonder his body is so good.

Typically, in my fridge at home, I have hummus, condiments, and wine. My pantry is filled with rice crackers, chia seeds, fiber thins, and other shortcuts to skinny. My girlfriends and I always tote about health and fitness, but the truth is, all these diet fads are just ways to control calories.

“Did you get lost in there?” He laughs.

“I need to take notes on how you organize.” I pull out a bottle of Stella and a small bottle of pinot grigio before shutting the door.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes. I mean, you premake everything?”

“Sure do. Sunday nights, I take care of food for the workweek.”

I open the beer and hand it to him, noticing a few black mugs on the windowsill over the kitchen sink.

“Why don’t you mix the salad and grab some silverware from the drawer next to the oven? I’ll get the chicken and rice on the table outside. It’s pretty warm out still, so I figured we could eat there.”

“Sure.” I use the spoons already in the salad to mix it all up as he props open the door.

When we sit down, I notice how much food he’s prepared. Two whole chickens perfectly browned and surrounded by carrots, celery, and potatoes. A large plate of brown rice. And, of course, a salad filled with spinach, cabbage, celery, carrots, and cranberries. For all his gruffness, the man obviously has a way in the kitchen.

“How did you learn to cook all of this?”

“I hated eating out all the time. Learned some recipes and then figured it out from there.” He lifts my white ceramic plate, filling it with food. “My parents cooked a lot also. My mom had a huge book of her recipes I brought with me.”