[Hank’s expression pulls a little tighter when Firo keeps him upright, half a grimace with hints of shame in it, but the gesture keeps him from falling into the stove so he just raises his eyebrows at the orders and makes his way toward the pantry.]

Well, I wasn’t knocking down your door cause that’s just how much I loved the taste.

[Okay, here’s the pantry. He doesn’t really want to repeat the whole kind of fainting thing from a second ago and he’d maybe feel less shitty sitting down anyway so he just plops on the floor and starts sorting through whatever’s in there.]

So, what’s this thing or two you think you’re going to show me? Is cooking shit from scratch how people got their kicks back in the nineteen thirties?