[He points a mustard-covered knife at her.] Plenty. [After a pointed, playful look, he goes back to sandwich-making. She's right, of course; he doesn't talk like this with anyone. At least he hasn't for a long time, not since his brother died. But he likes it, too. He feels almost happy. Comfortable. And maybe he's still definitely showing off, too.] Steak, chicken, whatever crazy Cajun stuff you ate in Mississippi. I can make it. [He gives her another look, quite identical to his first.] Barbecue's not just hamburgers and hot dogs, you know.