It’s that time in the season of novel-writing when food becomes so much work. I mean, you have to decide what you’re going to eat. You have to eat it. Under the worst circumstances, you actually have to go shopping!
And you can’t actually subsist completely on toast, or there are consequences.
Normally, at this point, one’s domestic partner(s) slide flat food under the door and keep the coffee/teapot going. But mine is halfway across the continent, and working on a novel of his own.