Lindsey had never really fixed me a meal until yesterday. She's fried things in the microwave, toasted some bread, and opened a few cans, but had yet to really cook (but I don't mean dancing). Last night after returning from an exam, I opened the door to a big, steaming plate of great food that Lindsey had prepared. Grilled chicken, macaroni and cheese, green beans, and potatoes. That may sound bland to some, but I'm a bland person and for me, that is the epitome of good food. It was the kind of meal I would request before lethal injection. Everything was delicious—the beans were cooked with ham, the cheese in the macaroni was perfectly smooth and tasty, and the chicken was mouthwatering. She had sliced, stirred, poured, measured, mixed, timed, scooped, and even "dashed," as I was made aware. I stuffed myself and rolled over to sleep forthwith.

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