oh the joy of
running out to the store to buy a rotisserie chicken after your pescetarian husband leaves for a few days
sprinting back home hungrier than ever
drizzling olive oil on a baguette, slicing up a yellow tomato, getting french cornichons and dijon mustard out of the fridge
sitting down at the table alone with a pile of napkins
and tearing into the succulent meat with your bare hands.