Dinner: One Meal at a Time

Liberated woman with domestic aspirations: that’s me. Martha Stewart meets Gloria SteinMart. I cook, but can’t bake a cake that doesn’t end up looking like the Little Rascals threw a shoe in and left it to bubble over like a demonic cauldron.

I send crumbly brownies to school instead of napkins because I don’t admit my limitations. Homemade Christmas cards show up on Valentines Day, and Valentines arrive with the leprechauns.
I have failed you, dinner.
With enough cookbooks to choke The Barefoot Contessa, let’s be real; we enjoy glossy photographs and shows, but when five o’ clock rolls around, we thaw a block of ground meat and make tacos.
As a kid, eating out was a rarity reserved for birthdays, mom’s occasional “off” days, and when the planets were perfectly aligned.  Now, we just tell ‘em at Wendy’s to give us “the usual.”
Once I made a meal plan and shopped with a list.  Once.
I fly by the seat of my pants like the Italians, whose menu is determined by seasonal availability. And if that “seasonal” flash frozen bag of beans is next to the frozen gnocchi, I’m gonna pair them. Feels like dancing through a Tuscan market place with Mario Batali, wearing his and hers orange clogs in a culinary meeting of the minds.
Before I know it, two consecutive backbreaking days of cooking have passed, and I’m reaching for that binder of take out menus–organization courtesy of Martha.
Not long ago while on steroids, all that new found energy prompted me to tell my doctor that I had organized every closet and drawer, cleaned the entire house and cooked three meals a day for a solid month. He considered putting his wife on steroids since he hadn’t had five home cooked meals in a row for at least a year.
See? I’m not the only lazy ass entitled house frau on the block. Or maybe the bounty of prepared food we’re surrounded by daily has changed the game for home cooks. We are smack dab in the middle of a foodie revolution; “cooking” vicariously before a Stouffer’s commercial persuades us to nuke our way to five minute “gourmet” gratification because Bobby Flay just whipped up a twelve course feast for the ages crafted from the finest ingredients Mother Earth has to offer and we salivate…all the way to the microwave.
Life moves fast.  We’re over extended, over worked, over burdened, overweight, over the top, over stressed, over and out.
Take out.
What’s gonna stand in the way of Five Guys burgers, Four Way Chili, Three Amigos Tacos, and over Two Billion Sold?
One meal at a time.

About the Writer

 

Linda is mom to two boys and leader of the Indie Americana band Jehova Waitresses. Her blog Mod Mom Beyond IndieDom serves up snark and musical humor with a Larry David edge.

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Comments

  1. Lady Estrogen says:

    I hear all that, sister. Gawd, I detest cooking. Every other day should be the maximum any one person should ever have to make.

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  2. Jessi says:

    Good pants, does that hit home! I always say that I love to cook, but recently, I’ve realized that I only love to cook for parties. I only love to make unusual things, I have no patience for the four food groups and balanced mealtimeyness. But when my kids ask me what’s for dinner, they assume it’s going to be restaurant food and that has got to stop. It may kill me, though.

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