I've been going through a spate of cooking lately.
I blame the weather. Nothing like a blast of Arctic wind straight off the tundra to stir up the juices and make you want something hot and filling like beef barley soup, or shepherds pie. Split-pea and ham! A big rosemary and garlic cracked-pepper roast.
Oh, and cookies. Oatmeal, spice drop, caramel. Sometimes I'm so domestic I slay myself. Last night I even made a Parkin cake, topped off with a lemon glaze. (Thin-ish oat-cake with lots of ginger and nutmeg - not too sweet.)
So today B bounced downstairs after his shower, sniffed appreciatively, and said "Are you making lasagna? It's been ages since you made that! Can you cut me a piece to take to work tonight?"
I put the milk back in the fridge. "Not lasagna. I can make that next week, though."
B sniffed again. 'Spaghetti? Well, that'll be good. Did you make those little meatballs?"
"Not spaghetti, either."
"Well, what good thing are we having tonight?"
"Why, it's frozen pizza tonight, hon! 'Cause I love you."