SJ and I return rather late from our various sojourns of the day (classes, really). N is sprawled on the couch in our living room (living room? living area), our new floor lamp on so she can read.
"This apartment smells like cooking. Like peppers," says SJ, glancing curiously around for what might be causing the smell. "Did you make dinner, N?"
"Yeah," says N. "By the way, I love this floor lamp!"
"Oh, thanks," I say (for I had bought it). "And I made dinner, too! But I didn't eat it yet."
"What did you make?" asks SJ.
"A peanut butter and jelly sandwich," I say matter-of-factly.
SJ rolls her eyes at my idea of dinner.
"Where did you get it?" asks N.
I stare at her.
"My peanut butter and jelly sandwich?"