I cannot put two coherent thoughts together tonight.
Tired, disillusioned. Exhausted. Teary.
So bear with me. I may be on a rant.
Youngest Daughter and Oldest Daughter, within thirty seconds of one another asked me these two questions:
“I wish I could have a baby sister to play with after school…?” (because living in a circus apparently just isn’t enough fun for her)
“Mom, where is the hydrogen peroxide?” (because blond is the new brown—and she already used up my lemon juice on Sunday)
Be still my weary soul. I think I might be experiencing the onset of heart palpitations. And possibly a fever.
Tonight, I made the decision: I will no longer be cooking (supper) in this house. That is, cooking supper tomorrow. Well, that’s a start anyway. That decision made after producing hockey puck-like biscuits and stinky fish chowder which I decided I would not be eating about 2.5 minutes after I had added the last ingredient. Husband is now looking for recipes. No reasonable dish containing hamburger will be refused.
I found myself this evening reheating the following and calling it supper:
*Two leftover plates of pork chops (one of which Second Youngest refused to eat on the weekend when she thought she had the flu).
*A huge dish of rice (which we barely scraped the surface of yesterday at lunch)
*A dish with exactly four miniscule slices of bar-b-q sausage in it, along with millions of red onions and green peppers. Yummo.
*Two garlic chicken cutlets (which I incidentally pulled out of the freezer, so they really don’t count in this list)
*One bowl of corn, and a smaller bowl of green beans
*Along with one fresh bowl of fish chowder which Youngest thought she wanted but took one taste of and realized otherwise.
Oh. And all that served with a generous plateful of hockey pucks, and a side of butter and jam to wash it all down with. That lessened the blow.
(Not so much.)
So, I have hung up the proverbial apron.
This Chicky’s done (like dinner).
Your turn, my Sweet Chefsky.
Cannot WAIT to smell the sweet aromas wafting to my nostrils as I await my meal, from where I fold and stack patiently: the laundry room.
Or maybe I will just be snoring on the couch under a pile of children. Who knows? Decisions, decisions…
Let the good times roll.