“I invited my girlfriend over and made her dinner. I didn’t cook, but I did eat her.”

“You don't scare me.""Really?" She stared at me over the sharp frame of her glasses."Well maybe a little," I admitted. "Sometimes.""Escellent.No skedaddle.I have a dinner to prepare. My son is bringing home his new girlfriend." For the first time, I saw her look something less than supremely confident. "I don't suppose you know anything about cooking with vegan cheese substitutes?"We shuddered together. "Google recipes?" I suggested."I did.""And?""Maybe we'll take them out to dinner.""Good plan," I agreed, and skedaddled. I had my own dinner out to contend with. I wondered if I could get away with jeans.Probably not.”

“You made me dinner, so I made myself vomit—twice. Once to clear some room in my full stomach so I could eat, and the second time as an expression of what I thought about your cooking.”

“I made her late, so she made me dinner. And by late I mean pregnant. And by dinner I mean marry her.”

“Sometimes when I'm faced with an atheist, I am tempted to invite him to the greatest gourmet dinner that one could ever serve, and when we have finished eating that magnificent dinner, to ask him if he believes there's a cook.”

“Made dinner," Helen told him in a flat voice. "Did I do something wrong?" he asked tentatively. "Of course not. Why would you ask that when I just cooked you dinner?" "Because usually when a woman spends hours cooking a complicated meal and then just sits at the table with a pissed off look on her face, that means some guy somewhere did something really stupid," he said, still on edge.”