In no shape or form or stretch of the imagination do I consider myself a cook. I don’t even microwave things all that successfully.
Sure, I can whip something up in a flash, but these things usually come with instructions, or as I like to call them “how not to fuck things up”- and as far as variety or creativity goes? The line is usually drawn at adding vegetables to Hamburger Helper.
I love food, don’t get me wrong- LOVE IT, and not even an unhealthy amount, I just appreciate flavor and variety and food that doesn’t taste awful. I find it a pleasurable experience to sit down to a nice meal… not always necessary to have good conversation but if the flavor is awesome- i’m in heaven.
When it comes to MYSELF? I’m more likely to burn something if I don’t know how to make it, haven’t made it before, or it doesn’t come with explicit directions on what to do, when, how long to do it for.
This has lead to quite a bit of trouble in the kitchen. Don’t make a sammich joke here, or I will have to spork you. I can make a MEAN damn sammich. It’s dinner that gets to me. FUCKING DINNER.
Due to my lack of skill near an oven, a cutting board, a blender.. or anything I can’t just shove into a crock pot and walk away (and even THAT is sometimes asking for trouble), I make the same things over and over again. And I do mean OVER.AND.OVER.
I stick to what I know, and what I won’t ruin… and it gets boring, fast. For everyone.
If I don’t know what the hell i’m doing or it’s not quick and convenient, no matter HOW delicious is, the chances of me attempting to make it with two ankle biters whining behind me, next to me, on me, or even in the same room as me- i’m not gonna do it. NO. Just no.
This brings us to the battle. The EVERY night battle we have in this house. Sometimes it’s mild, and we all just throw up white towels an give before there are any casualties, but other nights the gauntlet is thrown, battle axes drawn, and threats of smothering, mutilation and starvation are made.
WHAT THE FUCK DO WE HAVE FOR DINNER?
And why EVERY night do we have this fight? No one can make up their minds. I used to just put it on Holden and he’d come up with the most random (and not often eaten) dish that I just couldn’t say no to and BAM, problem solved, but I think he’s taken a page from his parents’ book and now responds with
“I dunno”- thanks for nothing.
We look in the pantry. We look in the fridge, and then the freezer. Then we go back to the pantry, and then back to the freezer again. We do this over and over again- somehow our minds lead us to believe that we MUST have missed something the last 8 times we checked. SOMETHING new will show up that will solve this never-ending battle of the stomachs. It never does.
We end up all feeling stabby and either going with something mediocre that absolutely no one wants but we’ve wasted so much time arguing and ho-humming that we have no time to make anything better, or we end up going out. My stomach (and possibly thighs) are displeased with the eating out.
It must end! Before I end someone (and I think you know who). We’ve tried meal plans, scheduling meals, making a menu to choose from so we never have to wonder what is even possible with what we have- and there’s always a night we come to something that NO ONE wants, or i’ve forgotten that i’ve used one of the ingredients necessary in one thing in a meal earlier that week. I’ve even made suggestions, and although no one has any BETTER ideas, it gets the “ehhhh I don’t know” response. That is one way, above all other ways, to make a woman go Lorena Bobbit. I now, more than any other time, understand why my Mom would get SO damn pissed about people complaining about dinner, or her cooking, and why I heard more times than I can count “LIKE IT OR LUMP IT!”- meaning eat it or STARVE- because I am at that point… when I can figure out what the hell to make, that is.
I’m taking the tax return, cancelling the trip to Disney, and hiring a fucking chef!
How’s that for being a problem solver?
I've gotten to the point where I'd let my kids summon a demon with a Ouija board before I'd let them play Monopoly together again.
Parenthood is when you start counting the minutes to bed time before 11am.
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