What got left behind?
I loathe making dinner.
I despise it. It is the absolute bane of my existence.
It’s gotten so I don’t really enjoy eating dinner all that much. I’d just as soon have cereal. Or toast, (whole wheat – with peanut butter.) And tea of course.
I don’t remember feeling this way before. Before the last five or so years. More than a dozen recipe books stand on two kitchen shelves, others live in the pantry alongside three large binders of recipes. Then there’s the rolodex, it represents my original, long ago, efforts of recipe organization. Its cards have rounded, soft corners with faded just a bit writing and, naturally, the requisite yellow and dark red stains of banana bread and the sauce of paprika chicken, (which looks like blood.) The recipes in the binders have been cut, (or torn), from a magazine or newspaper.
(Illustrating how old they are. We haven’t taken a newspaper in years.)
And slid into page protectors. Which are also often covered with splatters. Sometimes I wipe them clean with a damp cloth, other times I leave them alone. It depends upon my mood at the time.
When they were little my kids liked macaroni and cheese made from a box, (adding a quarter cup of milk and four tablespoons of butter.) Now none of them will touch it aside from Miss Annie whose tastes, like her mother’s, are wide ranging. (Honestly – I will read, eat, watch, listen to – whatever – the most refined and the lowest brow, all within the same hour, the same moment, without blinking an eye.
It’s all a matter of attitude.)
Any joy connected with making dinner has been left behind.
If I lived alone I would probably exist on a diet of cold cereal, toast, apples and yogurt, nachos with too many jalapeño peppers. Chocolate of course. Perhaps a broiled chicken breast or salmon fillet now and again. And cake.
Assuming all of the above, (along with tea and diet coke), could be delivered. I tend to be something of a recluse.
(Some people say hermit. I prefer recluse since the word hermit brings to mind a frizzy haired, wild eyed, grubby person wearing a loincloth. I know with absolute certainty I’d look ridiculous in a loincloth.
This morning I watched three of our dogs, (Trot, Lily, and Ellie), eating grass in the backyard. Nuzzling their noses into the dirt beneath. I watched Trot lying in the sun, Lily chase a bird along the lawn’s edge, Ellie leap atop the hot tub to sniffle and drink from the small rain puddle there despite the two full pans of water sitting next the dog food outside the breakfast room doors.
(I know they’re full because I filled them.)
I suppose rain water tastes different? Better? Like sparkling water? Does it tickle her nose? Perhaps it makes her hair gleam.
It’s evening now. I’ve done all sorts of things today, including make dinner. I discovered frozen turkey burgers long past their “best by” date, covered a cookie sheet with tin foil, sprayed the tin foil with pam, and plopped them on.
No – that isn’t what we’re having for dinner. Our dinner is the aptly named Turkey, Broccoli & Cheese Sauce: a layer of leftover turkey, covered by a layer of steamed broccoli, covered by cheese sauce. And black pepper. Then baked at 350 (Fahrenheit),until I suspect it’s adequately heated through and the cheese has turned golden brown in spots.
The frozen turkey burgers will be going into the over when the Turkey, Broccoli, & Cheese comes out, cooked, and fed to the dogs.
Who, as they never complain about what’s for dinner, are my favorite people to cook for.