The other day I made a rather unfortunate pot roast. I'm generally a decent cook, but this roast was not decent. Being an emotional wreck, as women are occasionally, I started crying when we began eating it. "We don't even have juice or anything good to go with this," I moaned. Trevor held me then said, "Put me in my chair," and sped out the door. He came back some time later with a bag full of Zupa's (I mentioned that I wanted Zupa's days before this incident and apparently he remembered this) and some juice he had picked up at the grocery store. He remembered what my favorite soup was (tomato basil mixed with Wisconsin cheddar...it's to die for) and constructed a salad with all of my favorite things in it all by himself. Mind you, Zupa's is not super close to my house.
End of tale.