I’ve always fucking loved dinner. Actually, I should say, I’ve always fucking loved lunch and dinner. Breakfast is for the birds. So is brunch, but those are topics for another day, another soapbox.
This feeling is about finishing your day, finishing the thought of what you’re going to have/make, finishing all the prep and actual cooking work (or, if you’re lucky/lazy enough, the waiting time for someone else to do those things), not fucking anything up.. and then finally getting to sit down and eat.
Depending on your view of things, it gets even better as you sit on your couch, turn on an episode of Seinfeld, put your feet up and start scarfing down. Some people prefer the company of others while eating a meal, and to them, more power. I happen to like that as well, but in the right situation. A regular weekday dinner? I sort of prefer (eh, that might be too strong… I enjoy, let’s say) the solitary 20-25 minutes of eating/Seinfeld time. Sort of helps me hit the reset button.
So, beyond the restorative qualities that actually sitting down for dinner provides, there’s the obvious “THANK YOU, SWEET JESUS, I NOW GET TO DESTROY THIS FOOD!” feeling that all of our inner-fat-kids get as we put the first forkful to our lips.
Polar Opposite of this Feeling?: Eating a meal alone on a holiday, birthday or any other remotely special occasion. Yeah, I know. Shit just got real.