I came home the other day to an empty house. Maria had not yet returned from dropping Bridget off at her Brownie meeting so I had some time to relax before I ate.

Two nights a week, I have to fend for myself. Bridget has to leave for activities before I get home so we don’t get to eat as a family. Sometimes, Maria has made something for all of us, and I heat it up. But most times, I make myself dinner, which is fine.

This was one of those nights. I like to take some time to think about it before I have to hop in the car and go pick Bridget up. Like a lot of times when I think about my meal, I get distracted easily and don’t eat right away.

Maria came home, and we sat on the couch watching episodes of “Scrubs” for about the 23rd time. At some point, I had a brilliant idea.

I asked my wife to make me a sandwich. Well, I thought it was a great idea.

A friend of ours joked when Maria stopped working full time and I said something about having dinner made for me each night. Like I said, that usually happens, but she has limits.

Apparently, making a sandwich at 7 p.m. For a lazy husband lounging on the couch is past her limit. Who knew?

We laughed as I pointed out that I really did want her to make me my dinner, but I would feel guilty if she did it considering how I was perfectly capable.

Then I realized that as much as I said it, I really didn’t want my wife to make me my dinner. Because I wanted a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and you can’t let anyone else make your PB&J.

That’s the reason that you can’t find PB&J when you try and eat out. Everyone has their own little rules about the greatest sandwich ever invented, and they can’t possibly trust anyone else to really understand those rules.

For instance, my rules sound simple on the surface. I require crunchy peanut butter, grape jelly and toast. But I would need an entire column probably just to get into all the intricacies of how to put those things together to make PB&J the right way.

So I set off to the kitchen to make myself dinner. A friend recently told me they haven;t eaten PB&J in years. I thought that was one of the worst fates known to man.

Until I dropped the peanut butter half of my sandwich on the floor. I tried to will the bread to land peanut butter up, but I must have earned some bad karma that day. I made myself another sandwich, but I still felt bummed out about dropping the first one on the floor.

Maybe next time I should look a little more pathetic on the couch so Maria will take pity on me. Somehow, I have a feeling I’ll go hungry if I try that.