Coming Home to the Smell of Love

I give my husband a hard time about not helping cook.  I will, however, admit that I typically do not give him the opportunity.  My personality in the kitchen tends to be a little . . . controlling, I suppose you could say.  We have a stereotypical wife/husband routine: I cook, he does dishes.

This particular day, I call my husband after a ten and a half hour day to say I'm beginning my 30 minute drive home.  The entire time I am praying that I will come home to something, anything, to be on the table for dinner.  Even frozen pizza would have thrilled me.

When I walked in the door, this is what I smelled:

Okay, I am aware you cannot smell it, but trust me, the house smelled wonderful.  The dish tasted as good as it looked (and smelled).  Knowing me too well, the pasta was surrounded by veggies in various forms: tomato sauce, salsa, celery, green pepper.  And don't forget the hot sauce.  Just enough for a good kick, but not overwhelming so that I'm wiping my nose every 5 seconds.  Mmm.

And cheese bread.  May not look fancy, but no one can go wrong with cheese on bread.  And for dessert . . .

He even toasted the almonds.  And we may have had a plastic container casualty in the attempt to melt the chocolate . . . but well worth the loss.  I <3 U too!