I walked into the empty house, looked around at the scattered remains of the day's mail, breathed in the almost stale air—and smiled. Hurriedly, I drop my purse at the door and kick off my shoes. Sophie winds around my feet wanting attention. "In a minute," I croon, absently brushing my fingertips behind her ears, walking lumpishly toward the kitchen.

I open the door and let my eyes dance across the seeming ordinary and make my choice, preparing also a bowl of broccoli as big as my head. Sophie has started purring now, sitting up on her back paws and tapping my legs in a play for attention. I get my dinner started and pick up the kitten, carrying her to the couch for cuddles and wet nose kisses.

Aromas fill the air in almost no time at all, and I apologize to Sophie that I'm not having sour cream and onion Sun Chips today—and no, I am not going to prepare a special dish of them just for her. (Honestly, there are few things as amusing as watching a little animal crunch through chips. Or popcorn.) I set her aside and try not to lick my chops as the timer sounds. I reach for a plate, blanketing it first in mounds of broccoli and then squeezing in the main dish along the nooks and crannies.

I set myself a place at the table, piano instrumentals on the stereo, a vase of flowers before me, and I unfold the napkin in my lap. Reaching for the fork, I place the first taste in my mouth and almost cry. This is good stuff. Too bad Nick cannot appreciate this. I love Lean Cuisine.