Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Earl and I had a heart-to-heart about our dinner issues, and I am really surprised with the outcome. Surprised and pleased.

“I love sitting down to dinner with you,” Earl said, when I poured out my bucket of woes. “It’s a continuation of our having coffee together in the morning.” (Have I mentioned that he brings me coffee in bed every day, just like the President does for the First Lady?)

“I like to putter with things. I could set the table. Open cans, stir sauces. We could be together,” he said.

I’d never thought of dinner this way, and perhaps it’s because I’m really not much of a cook. Over the years, I’ve come to think of meal preparation as a drudge, the only saving grace being that Earl always does the dishes. I never thought of it as an extension of our morning coffee. But I’m willing to reconsider.

So tonight we prepared dinner as if we were auditioning for a replacement for Julia Child and Jacques Pepin. It wasn’t as fancy as they were, but it was satisfying to have help in the mundane chores of silverware placement and rice boiling. And, when we sat down to eat, there was a sense of accomplishment that we had done it together. We even turned off the television to enjoy our meal more.

And, as we cleared the table, Earl asked: “What time should I show up for kitchen duty tomorrow night?”