“What is for dinner?” is a question I despise. I have spent hours writing (or surfing online, ahem—doing research). When I finally emerge from the writing cave, it’s the first thing on everyone’s mind. I never have an answer. I try to explain that my brain is fried because I have spent the day creating a whole world and making exciting things happen in it. I don’t have an ounce of creativity left to figure out the whole dinner thing. My family doesn’t seem to care. They are hungry and want to be fed. I have attempted to get everyone to claim at least one night, so I get a small reprieve, but they are resistant. Make no mistake, I am not a good cook. I am adequate at best, but they prefer my mundane food offerings to making their own. I need a robot that will make dinner and do the clean up afterward. My creativity demands it. And so does my stomach.