Veggies have been in short supply

“Where are you eating?” someone asked the other day.

“Over the sink,” I said.

That was a joke.

And anyone who has ever lived the bachelor life gets it.

When you’re cooking for yourself, trying to keep the kitchen clean, and trying to avoid doing dishes, every bachelor has — at one time or another — grabbed a snack or a complete meal standing up, over the sink.

It’s a great time-saver.

But it’s not exactly civilized. 

(Someone once described men living alone as “bears with furniture.”)

But I’m moderately proud to say I’ve avoided that over-the-sink approach over the past two weeks while my wife has been gone.

She gets back tonight, though after something like 27 hours of travel she’ll probably not be back to normal until sometime this weekend.

At some point, she’ll quiz me about my dietary habits in her absence.

So what have I been eating — over the sink or elsewhere — the past two weeks?

Leftovers, mostly.

Connie had over-prepared for the holidays, and there was an abundance of food on hand while she was still packing her bags Christmas night.

Some of it was easy to make use of, some was a challenge.

Turkey leftovers, for instance, are easy to work into a sandwich. That big piece of ham in the garage refrigerator was much more labor-intensive.

I enjoyed the leftover breakfast casserole and the last piece of sweet roll, as well as the final homemade blueberry scone.

And there was also some amazing beef stew on hand and even a frozen helping of lasagna.

But something was missing, or at least in short supply: Vegetables.

I did all right on consumption of fruits. Strawberries and blueberries on my cereal on weekday mornings, an apple each day at lunch.

But except for a dinner out with friends and a couple of Rotary lunches, that little thing called salad was pretty much absent from the menu.

I noticed it this weekend.

Daughter Sally had invited me down to Bloomington for an Indiana University basketball game. IU had been playing as if the team was under some sort of spell, but we hoped the trance would break. And, indeed, it did, with the Hoosiers thumping Illinois.

After the game, looking for a quiet place for a father-daughter dinner, we ended up at a Mexican restaurant on Bloomington’s east side.

It was then, when my order of quesadillas was served, that I noticed something unfamiliar on my plate: A piece of lettuce.

I gobbled it up, delighting in the crisp, fresh crunch.

“I think it’s time,” I said between bites, “I think it’s time for your mother to come home.”

Either that, or I’ll really be eating over the sink.