I committed dinner.
I admit it. I have no real remorse--heartburn maybe, but not remorse. Besides, the only witnesses were my children. And one of them isn't talking.
I really don't enjoy cooking. It's not that I can't, because I can if I should so choose to. But to steal someone else's quote (I don't remember who said it, but I can't take credit for the cleverness)--I read recipes like I read science fiction: I enjoy the genre, then I get to the end and think...Seriously? Can that really happen?
Several years ago, after attempting to be "helpful" in the kitchen, Husband threatened to parent block Food Network. So now I try to contain my helpful nature and simply let him do the kitchen magic that only he can do.
I do, however, really enjoy baking--bread, specifically. It's very therapeutic and almost like chemistry class. I get to experiment and there's always the potential that something just might blow up in the oven!
For the most part Husband's new work schedule works out well for us--four nights on and four nights off. However, every now and then (this week) it reaches around and bites us in the collective butt. He is in court every morning this week--comes home around 7am, court at 9ish, home to sleep and up again in time for showers and then off to work again by 7:30pm. Nowhere in there is there family time--let alone time to cook dinner. Which has left me responsible for all of the meals of the day. So, in an Utopian world--it's not my fault. I do what I can for the survival of my family. And my poor, neglected son is eating a PB&J for dinner tomorrow night.