I just ate a chocolate bunny for dinner, so it felt like the right time to have some actual food.

What counts as a real dinner these days? I’m not entirely sure, but I can tell you what it isn’t.
It’s not kombucha and saltines — especially not the kind of kombucha you’re seriously tempted to spike with vodka — paired with saltines because they feel comforting and familiar. Saltines with sliced cheese don’t count either.
It’s not seven clementines consumed because they were within arm’s reach while holding a baby and you somehow managed to peel them one-handed. That feels like an achievement, but it’s not dinner.