#*communion

Aziraphale didn't learn how to cook in the cottage. Or in recent years in general. He began cooking the second after humans figured it out themselves.

There was food in Eden. Vegetables and fruit and grains, ripe and juicy and always fresh, as far as the eye could see. But Aziraphale didn't find food attractive until he smelled a rabbit boiling in a pot of broth with carrots and leeks.

From then on, he partakes not only in the food but in the cooking and baking. He kneads bread, skins animals, scales fish. He pulls vegetables from the earth, cuts fruit, mashes berries. He learns from the humans how to bring water to a boil. He learns how to make pastas in Italy. He learns to prepare maize in the Americas.

The humans teach him, and it's quite nice to be the one learning. It's nice that there's a pocket of knowledge, always evolving, that hasn't been placed in his brain before being sent down. Human hands guide his, dirty them with juices and doughs, and then place full bowls and plates in them.

They ask him to join as they sit around tables, around fires, on floors, on stools. They ask for nothing in return. Just good company and maybe a good story. Aziraphale happily provides both and maybe even a few blessings over their homes.

With every bite, humans share their nourishment and the roles are reversed. Aziraphale is the one being blessed.

And when he sits at fine restaurants, eats the labors of love, he feels nourished again. By the humans who loved taking care of another so much that they made it their life. By Crowley who will pick up the check after only have a cup of coffee himself.