After several years of wedded bliss, my husband arrived home having had a particularly grueling day on the job. He sat down at our dining room table with shoulders shlumped, eyes downcast, and a brow that was more deeply furrowed than usual. He heaved a mighty sigh, and looked up at me with exhaustion, frustration, and--what do I detect there?--a faint glimmer of hope.
"All I want," he managed, "is hot dinner."
Hot dinner? I thought to myself. Apparently it's not a cereal night.
Then, HOT DINNER!! It was the eureka moment of a lifetime! All he wants is hot dinner!
And the glimmer of hope (or were those just tears of hunger?) was explained.
With nothing more than a steaming plate of, well, something, I could reverse the anguish of a day running the rat race. When his soul was sucked dry by the world, I could fill it with SOMETHING! This was more than a cry for Hamburger Helper, this was my calling!
I, the Happy Housewife, would be the bringer of Hot Dinner.
