At eight o'clock last night, overcome with the desire to impress him, I decided to cook dinner for my boyfriend. I invited him to come over at nine then hurried to the store to buy two steaks and a broccoli.

There was however, a problem. Add this to the list of my un-American attributes, but I do not know anything about choosing a steak. I do not know anything about preparing a steak. I do not know anything about cooking a steak. I do not have steak knives, steak seasoning, or a steak recipe. In the grocery store, faced with the staggering array of cow fragments, I did the only thing I could think of: I called my mother.

She was not home, so I called Joe.

Joe, kind soul that he is, talked me through the meat selection process (we chose two sirloins) and came over to help with the preparation. I think he originally meant to supervise, but after I refused to handle the carcasses, he converted my kitchen into an operating theater and went to work.

First came trimming the fat, a gruesome surgery that left more blood dripping down the walls than Freddy Krueger. Then he rubbed seasoning into the meat. I did not own what he deemed the proper spices, so we used a combination of black pepper and Mrs. Dash. Then, the hour of Rob's arrival at hand, he provided explicit directions for the actual broiling (which he made me repeat back to him), gave me a rousing pep talk, and disappeared in time for me to maintain the shaky illusion of competence.

In case you are wondering, dinner was a triumph, and Rob practically licked his plate clean. When he eventually reads this, he may be disappointed to learn that it was not a meal entirely of my own creation, but I am consoled by one thing: I may be a disaster in the kitchen, but my ability to find wonderful friends is unsurpassed.

It was a fabulous evening, and I owe it all to Joe, Rob, and Mrs. Dash.