Earlier this month, I opened my fridge, desolate as ever, and could not recall the last time I’d eaten dinner at home. I tried to jog my memory the way one does in these screen-tethered times and scrolled back through my camera roll. And back, and back, and back. There was no proof that I had ever eaten a meal at my own dining room table. That I had picked up a knife or so much as peeled a carrot.
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