As usual, my train home was crazy crowded and running late. Brain fatigued from spending my day converting passive voice to active, I stared out at the darkness, thinking about what a rotten day I was having and wondering what would be waiting for me at home.

Did my kids have a good day?

Would my husband have to return to the tax prep trenches after picking me up?

And, most importantly, would there be any dinner waiting for me?

That’s right. Food. More often than not, it’s all that stands between me and a meltdown that would put a tired two-year old to shame.

My train pulled into the station and, as I shoved past the other commuters wrestling for sidewalk space, I spotted our car with my hunky husband behind the wheel. As soon as I slipped into the shotgun seat, he leaned over and gave me a kiss.

“How was your day?” he asked as he always did, not really needing a reply but knowing full well it was polite to at least ask.

“Fine,” I sighed as I always do, my reserve of words dangerously low from my mind-numbing passive-active conversions.

My husband proceeded to tell me all about his day – as he was prone to do – while I stared through the windshield in front of me, imagining that the snow blanketing the houses we passed was really mashed potatoes and that the road sprawling out ahead of us was one big strip of bacon.

Who’s hungry?

“What’s for dinner?” I ask, not caring whether or not I interrupted him.

Ready and willing to share his culinary triumph for the day, he didn’t seem to mind my rude behavior.

“All sorts of things,” he quipped.

If it wasn’t for the dim lighting, I would’ve sworn he was blushing.

“OK, good,” I mutter with no small amount of relief as I tumble out of the car and onto our driveway, backpack in hand.

As my spouse rushed in ahead of me, my mind struggled to recall the meaning behind his strange culinary reference.

By the time I caught up with him in the kitchen and spied him pulling frozen burritos and leftover Swedish meatballs out of the oven, it hit me.

“All sorts of things” = “Clean out the fridge night” or, in Plate Spinner terms, “A leftover buffet.”

He waived his hand over the stovetop, “And I also made hot dogs and chicken fried rice.”

My hero.

Too tired to care about proper nutrition and oh-so-grateful I didn’t have to cook as soon as I walked through the door, I piled a bowl high with my favorite starches, and thought about how it wasn’t such a rotten day after all.