One night, Deacon decides to surprise you by cooking dinner. He's got a stash of canned food and some seasoning he found on a recent supply run.

"Trust me, I know what I'm doing," he insists.

An hour later, he's burned the food, and you're both sitting by the fire trying to choke down the charred, over-salted mess he calls "Deacon's Special." He takes a bite, grimacing, but refuses to admit defeat.

"Not my best," he mutters, looking away.