I was just settling on a Hungry-Man spicy fried chicken and mashed potatoes dinner, a gourmet delight ready to go in six-to-eight minutes, when he knocked on my door. I was so tired I carried my rock-solid dinner with me.
“What the hell is that?” John recoiled, taking a step back and staring at Mr. Hungry-Man.
It wasn’t hello or how are you, so I stood still to get my bearings. I held up the box and peered at it.
“Dinner. Why?” Nothing seemed to be falling out of the box. Why was he getting so upset?
He laughed a few rusty barks, which quickly turned into guffaws. Tears streamed down his face.
“Hey, not all of us are cooks.” I lowered the box. “You need something? Cup of sugar, maybe?”