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Late last night I curled up on the couch in a blanket, with an iPad, a bag of chips, and the will to watch TV until my eyes fell out.
I was utterly exhausted, it was nearly midnight, and I had yet to eat dinner. Luckily, my boyfriend is an earth angel, an amazing cook, and much more of a night owl then myself. He told me he’d handle dinner.
I sat as smells wafted through the apartment. This wasn’t your average late-night, thrown-together meal. He was going all in. Before I knew it, a plate had appeared before me. A glorious beacon of love and comfort and all things holy.
He made pork-chops, breaded with flour, thyme, and pepper. Atop was an apple marmalade he’d made in a pinch: apples cooked down with butter, tarragon, and sherry vinegar. Roasted crispy potatoes, purple and otherwise, salted and sprinkled with Rosemary. Plus massaged Tuscan Kale Salad with toasted pine nuts and parmesan.
Oh, and he did the dishes.