Dear Do (because I know you're reading this),
Right now, you're in the air somewhere between here and Chicago. Which is a shame, because cooking dinner isn't nearly as fun without you. I mean, I was almost too lazy to assemble my fajita/burrito, even though you'd prepared and carefully packaged all the components last night. As for utensils, a plate, a place mat? Forget it. I ate dinner while standing in the kitchen. Why bother taking the extra time? Which is kind of funny, given that I'm the fastidious one who insists on napkins and place mats.
I'm bemused at how little I want to cook, with no one to cook for. Is it because there's no one to share the resulting creation with, no one to appreciate the intimate moment known as dinner time? I feel completely lethargic and culinarily apathetic. I really enjoy cooking with you, for you. I find it really fun to participate in your culinary adventures, offering unwanted tips while washing your prep bowls, sampling your creations and trying to argue you out of adding wine and/or hot sauce. I love how you always find something worth complimenting when I set dinner on the table, and how any less-than-optimal parts of the dish are always the recipe's fault, never mine. The two of us huddling over cookbooks on Saturday mornings, over tea, passing recipe clippings back and forth, is disgustingly endearing. I love how much you, and we, have gotten into cooking. It really makes my day, every day.
You should have landed two minutes ago. I'll see you in 39 hours.
Oh, and Do? I just accidentally bit into one of the many jalapeños that you added to the fajita chicken. It nearly seared my taste buds off; what on earth were you thinking??