Hot Dinner

The advent of retirement has meant that I am catching up on sex.

Well, in a way. I was once told that a girl I was interested had had more lovers than I’d had hot dinners. I think this was meant to discourage me – I saw it as a mathematical equation to aspire to, but one that needed special underwear. Unfortunately, I’ve never been that good at maths.

I’m better at cooking, and now that I’m in command of the kitchen, we have more hot dinners. They can be varied and exotic but you need not assume painful positions and few of them would get you arrested in Mississippi.

And I am discovering that they need not be enormous – just sufficient. I do like leftover spag bog and chicken soup and beef rissoles in gravy, but you only need to make a few scoops extra – the business of making an entire week’s worth of the same thing is somewhat of a mistake round here. We seem to let things burn up in the freezer when we try to get too far ahead of the game. And there is a delight in occasionally strolling into the IGA and putting down a cash deposit on the fresh string beans.

I wonder if hot dinner girl ever ended up cooking anything else?

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