When I'm home, I spend Sunday with my husband. If we're not

In the words of Dolly Parton: “When I'm home, I spend Sunday with my husband. If we're not cooking, we travel around in our camper, stop at fast-food restaurants, and picnic. We love that stuff that will harden your arteries in a hurry.” What seems like a playful confession of indulgence is, in truth, a song of devotion, simplicity, and joy. Beneath her humor lies a profound truth: that love is nourished not only in palaces and banquets, but also in campers, roadside meals, and humble gatherings under the open sky. For it is not the grandeur of the table that matters, but the presence of the heart at one’s side.

To speak of Sunday is to speak of rest, of sacred pause. The ancients hallowed a day each week for worship, for renewal, and for the bonds of kinship. In Parton’s words, Sunday becomes not merely a day of idleness, but a day of togetherness—a sanctuary carved out of time where love is tended, like a lamp kept burning against the storms of the world. Her camper, her roadside picnics, even her jokes about unhealthy food, all become symbols of this: that when love is shared, even the simplest meal becomes a feast of joy.

The camper itself is a vessel of freedom. It carries with it echoes of the wandering tribes of old, who journeyed with tents and caravans, carrying their lives wherever the road led them. Just as the nomads of the desert found companionship by firelight after long days of travel, so Parton and her husband find delight in the winding roads and quiet places where they stop. The lesson is clear: one need not seek wealth or luxury to taste abundance. Abundance is found where hearts are at peace together.

History, too, gives us lessons of such simplicity. Consider Marcus Aurelius, emperor of Rome, who amidst the splendor of palaces longed for moments of simple companionship and rustic calm. In his Meditations, he wrote not of jeweled banquets but of the virtue of contentment, of cherishing the present hour, of sharing bread with honesty. Or think of the American pioneers, who, though surrounded by hardship, found joy in gathering around a fire to share cornbread and stories. Greatness, as Dolly reminds us, does not lie in the complexity of the meal, but in the strength of the bond it nourishes.

Her words about “stuff that will harden your arteries” are playful, yet they remind us of something deeper: life is short, and joy must not always be postponed in the name of perfection. The ancients knew this too—“eat, drink, and be merry,” they said, “for tomorrow we die.” Moderation is wisdom, yes, but so too is the ability to laugh, to indulge, to taste life’s sweetness without fear. The road will always bring hardship; let us not deny ourselves the small pleasures that give it meaning.

The lesson is clear: happiness is not found in extravagance, but in presence. It is in the quiet rituals, the laughter over fast food, the shared silence of a country road. To cultivate such moments is to cultivate the soul. Those who chase only splendor often find themselves lonely; those who cherish the simple joys of companionship build memories that outlast gold.

In practice, let each one of us carve time for those we love. Mark a day for them, as Parton does with her Sundays. Share a meal, however humble. Journey somewhere together, whether across mountains or merely across town. Laugh, even at life’s little indulgences, and do not let the weight of the world steal away the lightness of your bond. For in these small acts lies the essence of a life well-lived.

Thus, Dolly Parton’s words endure not as a casual remark but as a teaching: love is fed not by grandeur, but by attention. Cherish your companions, for they are the true banquet of life. Cook together, travel together, eat together, and remember that joy lies not in the arteries of the body, but in the arteries of the heart, which are widened and strengthened by love.