Last night my wonderful roommate made dinner for 9 people...that's right 9.
I don't think she was intending to cook for 9, but people just happened to show up at our house right around 7:30, so what could she do? Feed some and let the others stand out in the cold with their frozen noses stuck to the ice covered windows as they looked on at the warm and homey scene unfolding just outside their reach? She's not really that kind of person.
So, with open arms, she stretched her dinner.
She fed the two missionaries who have so little money this winter that they're afraid they won't be able to heat their house. She fed the guy who happened to stop over after this guitar lesson to get a pot he left at our house. And she fed me, the girl who hadn't eaten all day because stopping to eat meant loosing precious working-like-a-made-woman-just-before-finals-week moments. She was amazing.
After being filled with teriyaki glazed chicken, mango salsa and enough laughs to literally bust a gut I helped her with the dishes. Without a prompting. Without a complaint. Without reservation.