How lovely it is, to have your dinner made for you.
Now don't get me wrong - I love cooking, I love creating delicious things to eat and placing them before the family in the knowledge that they'll be sustained by food that is either good for them, or is deliciously naughty, or (and probably more correctly) a combination of both.
However, there's something really lovely about having your dinner made for you.
This evening, I was laying on our bed reading A Dog Named Slugger by Leigh Brill on my Kindle, when the tiniest tentacle of a waft began to tease my nose. A delicious waft of lovely bacon being grilled, which quickly turned into rather more than just a tentacle of a waft. I realised that hubby had started to cook his risotto for dinner tonight - and I was taken back to evenings spent at my parents' house when I was in my early teens. When I would also be laying on my bed reading a book - probably about dogs or horses - and I'd begin to smell the sausages or chops my Mum was cooking for our dinner.
It occurred to me that I couldn't ever remember anyone cooking dinner (on a regular basis) for my Mum. Now I don't mean that in a critical sense directed at my Dad, as he was in the Army for a lot of the time - and so would be away - and the remainder of the time he'd be working in London and doing the horrendous commute daily so would be in no position to help out in the kitchen. Not to mention, that of course my Mum is remarkably territorial and adamant that nobody but her shall cook in her kitchen!
I just thought how amazing it was, that she's been cooking dinner every night for all those years - and is still doing it now.
I also thought how lucky I am to have a hubby who enjoys a spot of cooking every now and then and who can give me a very welcome day off from it - and how not everyone has that luxury.