Oh Frank, be kind. There are people who enjoy cooking for others, and when something turns out really good, they get jazzed. I'm like that.
Well, here's my "picture" of the situation, drawn from examples out of my own life, because franksolich at times can resemble the steely primitive.
There they are, the steely primitive and his roommates, sitting around the living room in front of the television, the room itself cluttered with papers and dirty laundry and half-eaten food from two weeks ago.
The steely primitive's roommates all work; they're out in the real world.
The steely primitive himself is a "sorter" at a thrift store, and "pays" his portion of the rent by cooking for the roommates.
So everybody but the steely primitive is sitting around, lounging around, tired and worn out from being in the real world, working, and the steely primitive presents them with this feast.
Okay, fine. They chow down and grunt their approval; it's very good.
And then the roommates essay to discuss matters of Great Concern--whose job's on the line, money problems, how tired they are, what a jerk the boss (or a co-worker) is, &c., &c., &c.--but are constantly interrupted by the chirrupings of the steely primitive, "Hey, this is good, isn't it?" "Hey, this is good, isn't it?" "Hey, this is good, isn't it?" "Hey, this is good, isn't it?"
That's what I see.