Roast

When I walked through the door, I could smell roast. Dave, carnivore extraordinaire, had once again decided that beef belonged on tonight's menu.

My fault, I admit, because I decided to drop by Starbucks on my way home from work and grind a few words into my netbook. He understood that I needed to write. He sympathised and agreed to make dinner. But the roast was his way of emphasizing that consequences floated around every choice like scum on the surface of a stagnant pond.

I could always take the stairs at work tomorrow. And log thirty minutes on the bike while Dave and I caught the last half of the movie we started watching last Sunday.

Was it that long ago?

Now that we had begun trying I was acutely aware of nutrition. Of the cholesterol in red meat, and the triglycerides in pasta, and of course, the amount of caffeine in a venti cup of coffee at my beloved cafe. All of these choices weren't the best for the baby. Every morsel of food that entered my mouth would become part of the equation of life. Dave would smile and act supportive, but ultimately, his gut made more decisions at the grocery store than the baby books could ever influence.

Definitely thirty minutes on the recumbent bike.

"Smells great," I shouted from the front hall, while I hung my coat in the closet.

"I roasted potatoes, too. I know how much you luuuve them."

"Great." Those ought to go straight to my thighs.