I learned some valuable lessons about myself today. I will present them to you here in the order in which I cursed them aloud in my kitchen this evening:
- I am no Barefoot Contessa, Martha Stewart, Paula Deen, or Julia Child. Nor do I aspire to be.
- Reading Eat, Pray, Love does not make me a gourmet Italian chef.
- There is no shame in ordering take-out. Frankly, I don’t care if we’re eating DOG-fried rice, so long as I’m not cooking it or cleaning up after it.
In case you’re wondering, I thought I’d try my hand at this “once-a-month cooking” catastrophe. A few hours ago, I set out to prepare a month’s worth of Lasagna, Shredded-Chicken Enchiladas, BBQ-Marinated Pulled Pork, Taco Meat, Twice-Baked Potatoes, and Chocolate-Chip Banana Bread. About half way through my slavery, my son wandered into the kitchen to ask what I was doing. Fair question. He’s only five. He’s never seen this before.
So, on the verge of breaking a sweat as I enjoyed an unplanned facial from the steam of the boiling water, I was excited to show him all of the dishes I was preparing. To which, he replied, “well, if the Lasagna tastes like Ravioli then I’ll eat it, but I don’t like potatoes or bananas, and I really don’t like Enchiladas.”
I’m telling you, a force greater than myself intervened to spare that sweet little boy’s life. I took a deep breath, smiled, and told him there’s always Peanut Butter and Jelly. In that moment, I truly believe that I achieved Sainthood. From here on out, you can refer to me as the Patron Saint of Moms who Drink while Cooking.
Thirty minutes later, when my husband called to ask if we have any Wheaties for dinner, I may have shed a tear. I’ll be honest. I tried to do the right thing … preparing all of this homemade organic food for my family. I mean, it’s no breakfast of champions … but … it was made with love, right?