Like most people, my workweek begins Monday mornings with a stop at Starbucks or Crane Coffee, followed by an easy commute to the office. I arrive shortly past 8 a.m. with a handful of emails awaiting a reply. I grab lunch, attend a meeting or two, and then pack up my laptop and files. My office is about to sit dark until Friday.

I travel each week for my job, hitting Interstate 80 every Tuesday morning. Destination: Salina, Kansas. I work in development, and my latest client is based in this cozy community of 48,000. Smack-dab in the middle of Nebraska’s southern neighbor, my Tuesday travels take about four hours, front door to front door. Salina becomes my home for the next three days, until, on Thursday afternoon, I pack up my rental and zoom home to Omaha.

The four-hour drive each way leaves me ample time to brainstorm a variety of ideas: essays to write, to-do tasks that need tending, and recipes to prepare the upcoming weekend. Satellite radio and my own thoughts keep me company throughout my travels, but it’s my tiny kitchen that inspires me on Thursday afternoons. Hearty and home-cooked meals just aren’t possible from a hotel room. That’s why I’ve become diligent to have a recipe (and ingredients) ready when I’m welcomed home Thursday nights.

Of course I’m weary from the four-hour drive. And of course it would be easier to zip through another drive-through window, or toss another Lean Cuisine in the microwave. But those meal options are my only options when I’m out of town. When Thursday arrives, I find myself craving a meal that I have prepared with my own two hands. A recipe that’s a tried-and-true favorite, or something new that’s caught my attention. I typically determine Thursday’s dinner on Saturday or Sunday, ensuring my fridge and pantry are both stocked with the necessary ingredients.

After dropping my bags in the living room, I head to the kitchen. I pull the ingredients from the fridge and pantry. I begin dicing and chopping, opening cans and melting butter. If I’m working on a meal prepared in my pressure cooker, my motivation continues to soar.

Since picking up a new pressure cooker a few months ago, my confidence level in preparing poultry and protein (whole chickens, pot roast, even an Italian Wedding soup) has grown exponentially. These days, meals pretty as a picture are gracing my dinner table in less time and without much culinary expertise on my behalf.

The pressure cooker makes these meals so easy, it almost doesn’t feel like cooking. This four-quart-wonder warms up and the pressure beings to build. The combined aromas of whatever’s inside begins to waft throughout the kitchen, and my mouth begins to water. I can hear the pressure cooker sizzle, hiss, and simmer, until eventually it calms to a quiet. When the timer sounds, I set the table, plate the portions, and dig in.

In a way, my Thursday dinners feel more like Sunday dinners: I’m surrounded by those I love, with my belly full, and the comfort and pleasure of being back in Omaha. True, there is no place like Nebraska. But for me, there’s no place like home. And my kitchen.