House took a closer look at the sink. Not apples, tomatoes. There was a crate the size of a copy paper box full of them, on the counter where the dish drainer usually was.

“You shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” Wilson continued, cutting another tomato and dropping it in the water. “Anyway, you’ll be eating this eventually. I’m making tomato sauce.”

House took in the boiling jars, the crate of tomatoes, the pot full of water. “This isn’t Little House on the Prairie, you know. You don’t have to put up vittles to last through the winter. We have these things called ‘grocery stores.’” He opened the cupboard. “Look. I bought this jar of tomato sauce last week. I think it was two bucks.”

Wilson placidly kept cutting tomatoes and dropping them into the boiling water. “I paid six bucks for that whole crate of tomatoes. I’ll probably get two dozen jars out of it.”

“Except you have to waste a whole Saturday on it,” House argued. “Not to mention turn my kitchen into a steam bath.”

“I didn’t have anything else to do today.” He plunked another tomato into the pot. “This will be better than store-bought tomato sauce. It’ll be like a taste of summer in the middle of winter. You’ll see.” Peering into the pot, he plucked out one tomato with a slotted spoon and put it under the tap, in the free half of the sink. “Hand me that pot,” he directed, nodding toward the wall where House’s pots hung. “The big one.”

House deliberated for a second on whether to obey or not. Wilson had some nerve, ordering him around in his own kitchen. But there were a lot of good things Wilson could make with tomato sauce. Spaghetti. Pizza. Lasagna. Chicken parmesan. Stuffed peppers. And he wouldn’t be making them on a hot plate in his hotel room. House passed him the pot. “Those aren’t mine,” he observed, indicating the pots that were already on the stove. He had a decent set of cookware, and even a Crock-pot, courtesy of his mother, but even she knew that he didn’t need two giant stock pots.

Wilson pulled the skin off of the tomato in one big piece and dropped the pulpy fruit into the pot. “They’re mine. I got them out of U-Stor-It after I found these tomatoes at the Farmer’s market.” He took another tomato out of the pot and stuck it under the tap.

“You were that sure I’d let you come over and do your little home-ec project, huh?”

Wilson shrugged, skinning the tomato and selecting another. “Do you have a colander? This would go faster.”

“Now you’re all about efficiency,” House griped, checking the base cabinet by the refrigerator, where he had a vague recollection of having put the spaghetti strainer after the last time Wilson made pasta. The yellow plastic strainer was way at the back, under some other things he couldn’t remember ever having used. He yanked it out from the bottom of the pile, sending the other things toppling. “Here,” he said brightly, presenting Wilson with the strainer.

“Thanks.” Wilson put the strainer under the running water and dropped several partially-boiled tomatoes in it. “I guess the steamer and the deep-fryer basket are just going to stay there on the floor until I pick them up, huh?”

“You guessed right.” He wouldn’t even have been in that cupboard if Wilson hadn’t wanted the damn strainer.

The kitchen really was getting steamy. Luckily, there was exactly one ice-cold beer left in the fridge. He helped himself. “So you already had all the jars and stuff?”

“Yep.”

The rest of the tomatoes in the kettle peeled, Wilson started cutting X’s in more and dropping them in the boiling water. “I used to do a lot of canning. Don’t you remember I gave you all those jars of plum jam last summer?”

“I thought those were candles.”

Wilson turned away from the stove and looked at him. “What did you do with them?”

He shrugged. “I think I put them somewhere in case the power went out.”

“Why would I give you half a dozen purple candles?”

“I have no idea. Why would you give me half a dozen jars of plum jam?” He had to admit, it wasn’t quite as ridiculous as the candles would have been. While he didn’t spend much time basking in the warm glow of scented candles, he did eat.

“It was pretty good jam. Kind of runny.” Wilson nodded toward the crate of tomatoes. “If you feel like making yourself useful, you could get another paring knife and cut the stems and bad spots out of those.”

“Gosh, thanks.” House had no intention of making himself useful, but he started poking through the crate of tomatoes anyway. “What are the ones that aren’t tomatoes?”

“They’re all tomatoes.”

“This one’s yellow,” House said, holding out a specimen. It certainly looked like a tomato, except for the color, which was a bright lemon yellow.

“It’s a yellow tomato.”

“They come in yellow?”

“Yes. There are red-and-yellow striped ones, too. I don’t know if there’s any in there, but they exist.”

He dropped it back in the box. “Tomatoes are supposed to be red.”

“Most of them are. So I guess you didn’t eat the spiced apricots, either.”

House had to think hard to figure out what he meant. “That jar full of orange things? I thought those were ears.”

“You didn’t honestly think that I gave you a jar full of ears.”

“That would be a better present than a jar of fruit.”

“I gave them to everybody, as take-home favors from our New Years party that year.”

Somehow, it stung a little to hear that Wilson was promiscuously giving canned fruit to everyone he knew, and not just him. “I didn’t go to your party,” House reminded him. He’d never gone to Wilson’s parties, unless it turned out there was something he just happened to need from him when the party was going on. Even then, he’d usually just call and get Wilson to come to him.

“I know, that’s why I brought you the apricots at work.”

“So mine were, like, left over?”

“No. I put them aside for you. Where’s your garlic press?”

House decided not to think about Wilson all dressed up for his big party, handing out jars of spiced apricots (how on Earth had people managed not to laugh at him?), counting heads and jars, and then hiding a jar under the sink when he realized his bestest bud wasn’t going to show. “I have a garlic press?”

“I think I brought one over once.”

“Then it would be wherever you left it.”

House was a little surprised when Wilson rummaged in the utensil drawer and got out a small object that looked sort of like a wrench that had been put together backwards. If he’d given the matter any thought, he would have expected a garlic press to be something big, like a blender. He leaned up against the kitchen island and watched as Wilson pressed cloves of garlic into the pot with the peeled tomatoes.

Wilson wouldn’t have hidden the apricots under the sink. Why had he thought that?

Because that’s where the “candles” were. Nudging Wilson aside, he threw open the base cabinets and rummaged around until he found the six jars, hidden away behind an aerosol can of oven cleaner and some SOS pads. He emerged triumphantly, waving one jar and cradling the others against his chest.

Wilson smiled when he saw them. “They should still be good, as long as the lids haven’t popped up.” He was taking the jars out of the kettle with a big set of tongs and putting them on a towel on the kitchen island.

“They look okay,” House said, checking each lid. He got a spoon out of the utensil drawer.

“You’re supposed to put that on something, not just eat it with a spoon!”

House shrugged.

Wilson shook his head and took out some more jars. “It must drive you crazy knowing there was food here for over a year that you didn’t eat.”

“Yup.” He looked at the jars. “What are you doing with these?” Wilson was putting more jars in the biggest kettle.

“Sterilizing them. Don’t touch.”

“Yes, Mom.” Before Wilson had said that, he hadn’t wanted to touch them. “How long is this going to take?”

Wilson shrugged. “A while. Once I get the rest peeled, I’m going to put up a few jars of whole tomatoes, then the sauce has to cook down for an hour or so before I can can it.”

Screw that. “Have fun.” He took his beer and his jam into the living room, where it was marginally cooler and less steamy. Plus, there was TV.

It was pretty good jam. What had Wilson said? A taste of summer in the middle of winter. It was summer now, but this was a taste of last summer.

Last summer had been the shooting, and Ketamine. Running at night and skateboarding in the park. Last summer had been before Tritter, before events pushed his and Wilson’s friendship to the breaking point.

Last summer had been pretty good.

He glanced over his shoulder, back into the kitchen, where Wilson was putting up enough tomato sauce to last them all winter.

Maybe this one wouldn’t be too bad, either.