Once upon a time (9 months ago), dinner was a big deal in our home. In fact, our entire day danced around the topic.
In the morning, Mike would plant the seed. “Whatcha feel like for dinny?” (Interpretation: What would you like for dinner tonight?)
He’d throw out a few options: Stuffed chicken? Homemade mac n’ cheese? Pasta with sausage? Something on the grill? (You can see why I married him. Love that man.)
We’d agree to think about it for a few hours.
“Creeeammmyyyy pastaaaaaa?” is the tempting text message I might get around noon.
“Oh my. I like your style.” is what he’d get in return.
And then for the next five hours, I’d daydream about the amazing dinner we were going to have.
He’d start cooking almost as soon as we got home from work, taunting me with amazing aromas.
By 6 p.m., I’d be begging for a taste.
“Get the HECK out of my kitchen,” he’d yell. (Cleaned up a bit for a mixed audience.)
By 6:15 p.m., I’d be nagging him to tell me exactly how long until it would be done. (His answer is always “7 minutes.”)
By 6:30 p.m., he’d know he couldn’t fight me off any longer (“You said ‘7 minutes’ 15 minutes ago!”), and although he’d like for the sauce to simmer for another 30 minutes, he’d concede and we’d chow down.
In front of the TV. Like true Americans.
And then? Then we’d put our dishes on the coffee table where they would lay until the next time one of us felt like moving from our Meg-and-Mike-shaped imprints on the couch.
Now we have a kid.