(experimenting with a hint-of-honey pizza crust. it was delicious.)
But we've started something new here. It involves my making stuffed peppers or homemade pizza or creamy pasta in our cramped kitchen.
It's usually dark by the time my husband gets home at 7pm. I light the three candles we own. I set the table with the blue floral dishes our apartment provides, lay out the flatware that clashes so badly. I pull the chilled glasses from the freezer and pop the tops off glass-bottled sodas from the tiny market next door.
The lights and TV stay off.
And we talk.
We talk about his day.
Laugh about the kittens and their silly tricks.
I cry about missing home.
Or share the latest funny cultural clash.
Dream up where we want to go next.
Or scheme about fixing broken things.
It is humble, but it's real. It's the peanut butter that keeps our sandwich together.
And it's the part of my day that feels most like home.