A/N: New chapter! I am in love with this. Possibly because I am a huge cook and love writing about it. So...hopefully you like this as much I loved writing it!

Cristina Cooks

When Cristina put her mind to something, she had a singular focus that no amount of outside noise or distraction could break through. She had used this focus while she was in school, in order to get the sort of grades that got her into good med schools. Then, she used it again to get scores that would get her into good internships. Past that, she had used it in every surgery, every trite hospital competition Bailey set. She had even used it in the early days of her and Owen's marriage, the lack of surgeries setting her attention and skill on decorating the apartment, becoming the perfect wife.

Now, she was calling on her superhuman focus yet again. But it wasn't for a surgery. Or even an article. No, this was something entirely different. Cristina Yang was going to learn how to cook.

It all started when Owen made an off-handed remark about how Beth would cook for him. They were on the couch, her feet propped up on his lap. He rubbed her feet while she thought through what he had said. Sure, the comment had been casual but did he mean something behind it? Cristina was hardly the domestic type, but he had to know that.

"Did you like it?" she asked gingerly.

"Like what?"

"The cooking," she clarified, watching his expression carefully. He nodded noncommittally and told her, "Yeah, I guess."

She nodded, pressing her lips together as she chose not to respond. He easily read her silence and said, "I don't care that you don't cook for me, Cristina. It's not your thing. I get that."

"It's not my thing?" she repeated. "What do you mean it's not my thing?"

He saw he was treading on dangerous ground and attempted to change the subject. Cristina, however, was having none of it. "You don't think I can cook," Cristina accused.

"Well, for the three years I have known you I haven't seen you cook once."

"Just because you don't see me cook, doesn't mean I don't do it," she said, now in a complete huff as she wrenched her feet from his lap.

"Cristina," he sighed.

"I'm cooking," she announced. "From now on, I am going to cook dinner and show you that I can cook."

"Cristina, we're barely here for dinner," he reminded her gently. "And with Sam-"

"I'll cook on the weekend," she interjected, nodding her head firmly. "Yes, I will make a dinner for Saturday nights."

"You don't have to do this," he said, leaning forward and capturing her hand with his own. "I don't care that we eat a lot of take out."

She was still a bit teed off at him but ran her thumb over the back of his hand, anyway. "You think I can't cook and I am going to prove you wrong."

The First Dinner

She chose Ina Garten to be her cooking guru, purely because her show was called Back to Basics. If the woman had an entire show teaching the basics, she had to be good. And basics was something Cristina could handle, could master.

Lemon Thyme Chicken.

She memorized the recipe, wanting to be in full control once she stepped into the kitchen. All the ingredients were bought and lined in an orderly fashion on the counter. She was prepared. She was ready. Last minute, though, she felt a flash of nerves and decided she wanted some company while she cooked. Owen was banned from the kitchen, but she grabbed Sam's highchair and slipped him into his seat.

"Alright, Mommy is cooking for your Dad tonight," she said, putting the skillet on the stove and turning on the gas beneath it. "Your dad thinks I can't cook," she continued. "But I am going to prove him wrong."

She wandered over to the counter and picked up the chicken, prepared to dredge. She had googled it. Youtubed it. Seen Ina Garten herself, do it. She was ready to get into action. After properly dredging, she put the chicken breasts to the side and poured some oil into the pan. Next she added the chicken and she nodded succinctly when it sizzled properly.

Everything was going according to plan. She poured in the bit of wine and lemon juice, then set the timer. Wiping her hands on her newly bought apron she turned to Sam and said, "See? Mommy can cook."

The three of them sat at the kitchen table, Cristina and Owen cutting into their chicken while Sam dipped one pudgy hand into his small bowl of cheerios. Owen glanced at the chicken, swallowing hard when he saw the pinkish tint of the meat. He looked up at Cristina and saw her staring at her chicken in much the same manner that he had. Her eyes rose to meet his and she pursed her lips into a frown as she stood and grabbed both of their plates. "Not a word," she ordered.

She stuck Owen's in the microwave and took out her frustration on the machine's buttons. Behind her Owen filled his salad plate with the salad she had thrown together quickly. He took a large mouthful and chewed, nodding his head appreciatively. "Good salad, hun."

"Anyone can make a salad," she huffed.

The Second Dinner

Okay, so the basics had proved a bit more difficult than she anticipated. Still, she was undaunted. Cristina Yang was going to cook. There was no question, no discussion. She was going to cook and she was going to cook well.

Pasta.

Who messes up pasta? Even her equally culinary-challenged husband could make pasta, so she knew she could handle this. Her time in the kitchen was short this round, but she brought Sam along for moral support again. He seemed to enjoy his prime seat, watching her and making the occasional incoherent babble.

"Doesn't it smell good?" she asked in Sam's direction. He gurgled in response and she grinned, stopping her cooking long enough to give him a quick kiss on his cheek. "That's right, Sam. Mommy is going to win tonight. She's going to prove she can cook."

"Smells good, Cristina!" Owen called from the living room.

"No talking," she called back. "You're going to jinx me."

"I'm-"

"Ah!" she interrupted, "Shush!" She moved back to the stove and gave her pasta sauce a quick stir. He obeyed her call for silence and she rewarded him by saying, "Dinner will be ready in five minutes."

The pasta was cooked perfectly. The sauce was flavorful and complex, or at least that's what Tyler Florence had said. But as she ate the pasta, chewing thoughtfully, she came to one devastating conclusion.

"Yours is better," she said, setting down her fork. "Your sauce comes out of a jar, but yours tastes better!"

"I think it's good," he told her, pushing a piece of pasta around the plate to sop up more sauce. "Really, Cristina, it's good."

She frowned. As far as she was concerned, she still had not proven herself as a cook.

The Last Supper

Baked chicken and rice.

The rice overflowed twice.

Losing track of time as she tended to that damn rice, the chicken burnt.

She hated cooking. Hated it. Hated it.

She sank to the floor, back pressed against the oven. "Owen!"

"Am I allowed in your sanctuary?" he teased.

"Just get your ass over here," she groaned. He came into the kitchen, laughing when he saw her sitting on the floor. Without hesitation he sat down beside her, laying a hand on her knee.

"So, Thai or Mexican?" he asked, pulling out his cellphone.

She sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. "Thai."

A/N: So...Cristina has found something she cannot do. Cue the gasps. lol

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