I made him dinner. He said it was “adequate.” So I said goodbye.

Get this: There was a man courting me, and after a few restaurant meals together, I offered to make him dinner.

Turns out, he was painfully honest about my cooking skills, such as they are. Then he was stunned when I showed him the door and ended his evening — probably earlier than he was wishing.

I believe in honesty, too. But not to the point of hurting someone you met just eight days before.

“I showered, shaved and shampooed!”, he announced when he arrived at 6 p.m., bottle of wine in hand. All of which was not exactly an every-day thing for this man, I had learned during my first few minutes of meeting him. He told me his story, how he had been living on the road in a solar panel-powered van — shower gear included — for the last 10 months.

He had called it a career in California, quit a relationship, sold everything, designed himself a van for everyday living, hit the road and headed east. Ten days ago, he landed in Lubec.

For this blog, let’s call this man Clinton. Especially because that’s his real name.

Clinton turned up in my town looking for a few weeks of cooler temperatures. He wanted a fresh place to hang out by day, and to eat out in the evenings. Water Street with its waterfront views and tourist-quality restaurants provided that. That, and a place for him to park the van every night without hassles.

We met and got talking. “What are you doing for dinner?,” he asked after an hour.

“Eating with you?” I ventured.

Our dinner together became a date, of sorts. I told him I was a reluctant dater, because it would be the first date for me since my husband died 4-1/2 years ago.

That Clinton asked for my phone number at evening’s end was flattering. Maybe another date ahead! A man taking an interest in me! He actually was fairly interesting himself. I can say this, because he told me all about himself during that first dinner.

Yet he also asked very little about me. Now, I know that’s not a strong start to new relationships. But if he was going to call and suggest what became back-to-back-to-back dates with me, I wasn’t hesitating. Because Clinton was tall, trim, handsome and unusual.

Suddenly, after more than four years on the sidelines, I wanted back in the game.

Plus, I was feeling slightly smitten. Appropriately cautious, but smitten all the same.

We went the next evening to the classical music concert. Then came the barbecue the Lubec Masons put on every Thursday, followed by many more hours of conversation over coffee, beer and wine, all over the next week.

He even kissed me in the middle of Water Street one night when we parted.

“Come over at 6, and I’ll make you dinner,” I boldly told him the next day.

I mean, isn’t this how new relationships unfold? He cooks for her, or she cooks for him?

I didn’t tell him that my cooking skills are limited. “Largely lacking” is a more fitting phrase. But as some readers know, I started this Late-In-Life Cook blog just last October, when I turned 56 and was ready to dive in and become like everyone else.

Before that, especially since living alone, I just didn’t care about cooking or healthy eating. Making meals for either myself or others was simply not my thing. (Frank had done all the cooking in our marriage).

I haven’t posted a blog entry since April, when my working life escalated. “Are you still cooking?” has become a constant question from friends who had followed my Facebook postings. Yes, enough, I told them, but I’m just not writing about it. Realistically, though, there has been more backsliding than blogging since late spring.

Still, I have been using my stove enough this summer that I recently had my propane tank refilled — actually, for the first time in my life. Pathetic it is — but I wasn’t going to disclose this particular shortcoming to this new man so soon.

Not if I could manage a single homemade dinner for him, at this point. Besides, my confidence had soared in the last few days. I didn’t think I was **that** challenged. Besides, how difficult could making dinner for two, be?

Despite my best intentions, little went well. It went well by my standards, but apparently not by his.

Clinton was pointing out all this, one miserable moment at a time. I think he did not even realize the insensitivity he was imposing.

Thirty minutes into our wine, he asked when I would start making dinner. I left for the kitchen, hoping he would follow. I also yearned to hear that age-old question from proper dinner guests, “Can I help?”. But that didn’t happen, either.

He stayed in his chair and watched from the living room. I set about preparing our dinner of linguine with pesto sauce and scallops — as if I could do this casually while keeping up my end of the conversation.

Then he came into the kitchen, asking for hors d’oeurves. I had planned that our dessert would be European-style cheese served with strawberries — simple but elegant-for-me. Because days earlier, he had mentioned his love for strawberries. I was only being thoughtful, right?

The cheese-and-strawberries became an hors d’oeuvres. I was flustered. I was dying on the inside, but was holding it together on the outside. I continued making this meal for two as if it was second nature for me.

He may have seen through me. But he didn’t have to tell me as much.

When I put the salad on the table with only a fork (I was nervous), he said I needed a better serving utensil. So I got one.

When I put the linguine down, he said I should warm it in the microwave. So I did.

When I used too little garlic-and-pesto sauce on the linguine, he said it was bland, and that I needed a better sauce. I realized one day later that I had forgotten entirely to toss it with olive oil. My nerves were showing up.

When he didn’t finish his plate, I had to ask: “Ummm, not so good for you?”

He hesitated, then killed me with his choice of a single word: “Adequate.”

I thought he was doubting even that.

I decided to ‘fess up.

“You know,” I hesitated back. “This is the first dinner I have ever made for anyone. Frank did all the cooking in our marriage.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you aren’t a good cook?”

My heart sank again.

“I really tried my best tonight,” I told him.

He didn’t get it.

“We could have gone out to eat,” he said. “From now on, we’ll just go to the restaurants, okay?”

So not okay for me.

But I cleared our plates, then smiled through more of his stories from his past. All about him, so little about me. I sensed he was back in his comfort zone. I knew he was blissfully unaware of my discomfort.

Then came his final question: “What’s for dessert?”

Then came my final answer.

“There is no dessert. I intended to have the strawberries for dessert. But, here” — I got up and got the rest of the strawberries from the kitchen. “Take them with you on your way out.”

He said goodnight. But he didn’t kiss me goodnight, as he had just 24 hours before.

Besides, I would not have let him.

This morning, during my usual early-morning walk through town, sunthe sun was trying to break through the fog.

And Clinton’s van wasn’t parked by the water in its previous place.

Hit the road, Jack. And don’t cha come back no more, no more.

Katherine Cassidy

About Katherine Cassidy

Making meals is an everyday occurrence for everyone else, yet this writer has gone years without making much of anything in the kitchen. On the verge of turning 56, she is committing herself to learning to cook at last -- both late in life and in public. Watch her as she ventures beyond boiling an egg,