It was date night. I made sangria. I pulled out and cleaned up my all-time favorite glasses (the ones that I purchased in Israel when I was 16). I decided to make personal pizzas. It was going to be perfect.

But when the pizza came out of the oven and I took a look and the crust, I knew something serious was amiss. I pulled a bit off from the corner to taste-test, and I knew that I had made a serious error. It tasted old: medicinal and starchy. Not the kind of flavor to spark intimate feelings for a serious date night.

He didn’t believe me. He gave me that infinitely-patient look that says, “Oh, woman, you’re too hard on yourself.” He took a taste, wrinkled his nose, and agreed that I was right.

“I can head out,” he offered, “and pick up something for dinner.”

I heard him, but was unwilling to listen. Of all the nights to fail in the kitchen, date night was not the night. And I didn’t want to spend money out when he had just recently purchased so many great things for us to eat. I just needed to think around the problem. The toppings were good; too good to stay on top of the crust. Sausage and pepperoni. Zucchini and basil freshly picked from the garden earlier in the day. I didn’t want to let them go. But should I mix them in with pasta? Pull out bread to make pizza toast?

And then I remembered.

He had gotten some Pillsbury Crescent Rolls for us to make pigs in blankets later in the week. I could section off the toppings and use them as filling instead.

15 minutes dinner was officially done.
Date night saved.