(Fair Warning: This post contains absolutely nothing of consequence and is full of the kind of self-centered prattle for which the internet, and blogging in particular, has earned a negative reputation.)
Several weeks ago, Rob indulged one of my cravings – not necessarily a pregnancy-induced one, mind you – and bought me a jar of hot fudge. I ate it several times on ice cream, but then, because hot fudge isn’t good on much else, and because we don’t have a microwave and heating it up is tedious and messy, the jar has been sitting for quite some time in the back of the refrigerator with two spoonfuls of fudge left.
Sunday night, I took a pan of brownies to a church dinner. Turns out several other people also had the same idea, so there were plenty of brownies left over and I brought half a pan home. Normally, even half a pan of brownies wouldn’t last two days in this house, but on Monday night, I had a different church group over for dinner, and one of them brought strawberry shortcake and ice cream, so we didn’t eat the brownies. The shortcake-maker left her ice cream.
Tuesday night, we were at yet another church event at which dessert was served, so the brownies went uneaten again. (Well, except for a little nibble here and there.)
Wednesday night, my first regular evening home all week, I discovered this: There were brownies on the counter, vanilla ice cream in the freezer, and two spoonfuls of hot fudge in the fridge. Voila! Hot fudge brownie sundae!
While I was eating it, Rob was doing sit-ups and push-ups on the floor in front of me. I ignored him.