Feed Me! Feed Me!
I feed the cats. The dog. The kid. The fish. The husband. And when I have no other choice, I feed myself. But truth be told, I hate cooking. And I despise being the cook of the household.
I can only think of a handful of meals that are worthy of sustaining a growing family. And from those a select few that aren't made from a box with step-by-step directions or aren't wholly microwaveable in their preparation capabilities. Sure, I've learned to turn on a stove, to cook an actual meal with no directions. And, I've even been known to experiment a bit with some off the wall meals that have been somewhat of a success (meaning, my husband dared eat the left-overs). But generally, having the responsibility of determining when and what my family eats each and every night? Well, it is a bother. A domestic chore that I am not liking. Almost as much as washing dishes and laundry.
Early in my adulthood I kept it easy. Pasta. Lots and lots of pasta. Or meals out on the town (whether fast food or otherwise). Hell, I only had to watch my own feeble nutrition, who cares? But then I got sucked into a relationship. One that, unfortunately, wasn't with a cook (or even someone that liked to cook). So, that little role got put on my shoulders (or we'd both starve).
I braved it out. Cooked meals in candlelight. Offered my limited skills in one of those like-me sort of offerings. And eight years later we got married (maybe that is why it took so long?). Now, well many years after, we have 1 child and another on the way. And I am still stumbling along the cooking trail. Still despising every minute of it.
Sure now we have a dishwasher for the clean up. And I've even expanded my cooking horizons a bit. But I'd kill to have to not think of 3 meals a day for the next week (or month or year). It requires too much planning. Too many decisions. And well creativity that is just tapped out at the early morning hours for breakfast. And just too much thought for the lunch time madness I call conference call time. Or in the evening--the witching hour--when my son wants nothing more than to watch episode after episode of Scooby-Doo.
What's that you say? Have the husband cook? Ha! Would be nice, if he got home at a reasonable hour. See, when we were young, naive, and working our asses off, neither one of us got home before 8pm. And even then, I beat home about 99 times out of a 100. And when I didn't, it was either pizza, peanut butter and jelly on bagels, or out to eat. And now? Well, he still has late hours. I'm picking up a child on day care hours. And? Yep, waiting until 8pm or after is never going to accommodate a kid that grows faster than a green weed in a rain forest.
So. I am stuck. I'm the family cook. I'm the nutritional specialist in the family by default. And tonight (as with every other night), I'd give my left arm to not have to worry about it and sit my ass down in front of the television for a well deserved early evening relaxation time. But then again, that growling in my stomach might actually disturb the baby. Oh and my son who's sitting on the chair across the room.
Maybe I can at least convince other family members to attend to the animals. I mean, the 4 year old can balance on a chair and sprinkle flakes to almost anything right? Maybe that will help the dog lose her extra few pounds.
I can only think of a handful of meals that are worthy of sustaining a growing family. And from those a select few that aren't made from a box with step-by-step directions or aren't wholly microwaveable in their preparation capabilities. Sure, I've learned to turn on a stove, to cook an actual meal with no directions. And, I've even been known to experiment a bit with some off the wall meals that have been somewhat of a success (meaning, my husband dared eat the left-overs). But generally, having the responsibility of determining when and what my family eats each and every night? Well, it is a bother. A domestic chore that I am not liking. Almost as much as washing dishes and laundry.
Early in my adulthood I kept it easy. Pasta. Lots and lots of pasta. Or meals out on the town (whether fast food or otherwise). Hell, I only had to watch my own feeble nutrition, who cares? But then I got sucked into a relationship. One that, unfortunately, wasn't with a cook (or even someone that liked to cook). So, that little role got put on my shoulders (or we'd both starve).
I braved it out. Cooked meals in candlelight. Offered my limited skills in one of those like-me sort of offerings. And eight years later we got married (maybe that is why it took so long?). Now, well many years after, we have 1 child and another on the way. And I am still stumbling along the cooking trail. Still despising every minute of it.
Sure now we have a dishwasher for the clean up. And I've even expanded my cooking horizons a bit. But I'd kill to have to not think of 3 meals a day for the next week (or month or year). It requires too much planning. Too many decisions. And well creativity that is just tapped out at the early morning hours for breakfast. And just too much thought for the lunch time madness I call conference call time. Or in the evening--the witching hour--when my son wants nothing more than to watch episode after episode of Scooby-Doo.
What's that you say? Have the husband cook? Ha! Would be nice, if he got home at a reasonable hour. See, when we were young, naive, and working our asses off, neither one of us got home before 8pm. And even then, I beat home about 99 times out of a 100. And when I didn't, it was either pizza, peanut butter and jelly on bagels, or out to eat. And now? Well, he still has late hours. I'm picking up a child on day care hours. And? Yep, waiting until 8pm or after is never going to accommodate a kid that grows faster than a green weed in a rain forest.
So. I am stuck. I'm the family cook. I'm the nutritional specialist in the family by default. And tonight (as with every other night), I'd give my left arm to not have to worry about it and sit my ass down in front of the television for a well deserved early evening relaxation time. But then again, that growling in my stomach might actually disturb the baby. Oh and my son who's sitting on the chair across the room.
Maybe I can at least convince other family members to attend to the animals. I mean, the 4 year old can balance on a chair and sprinkle flakes to almost anything right? Maybe that will help the dog lose her extra few pounds.
