My husband is making a very bad habit out of asking me what I want for dinner. We went on a walk tonight, the three of us. It was a glorious walk by the way. There were people in their pajamas walking their dogs. The birds were singing. Everett collected some rocks. We passed a live guitarist that filled the streets for blocks with his beautiful strumming. And at one stop light, a fire truck pulled up right next to us on the sidewalk and every. single. fireman waved to Everett, and I watched him light up like a Christmas tree. But anyway, back to the matter at hand: my husband making a very bad habit out of asking me what I want for dinner. Right as we were walking past a Mexican grill and our nostrils filled with spice and salt, he asks me this. What he really means is, what are you going to have for dinner? And the answer to that is chicken and broccoli and probably leftover potatoes. Right now, we are trying very hard to not eat out as much as we used to. But if he would really like to know what I want for dinner, here is the list that dances in my head at night, just for future reference, just in case he feels like getting a kiss with a little extra gusto behind it at some point: Chinese take-out, a big bowl of homemade chips and fresh salsa, and yes, crab rangoons, goat cheese, a giant turkey sandwich, sushi, and all of those things that are off limits for four more months, buffalo pizza, enchiladas, spicy peanut chicken, and a limeade from Sonic if I'm being honest. JUST FYI. JUST IN CASE SOMEONE SPECIAL IS READING THIS.