Dinner. Ugh. Usually by the time 6 p.m. rolls around I’ve worked myself into a serious depression over the question of what I’m going to make for dinner. You see, I have a love-hate relationship with cooking. I can go for a few months where my cooking is exciting and inspired and filled with love and generally awesome. Other days (like every day for the past 7 months) I want to burst into tears at the very sight of my kitchen and it’s a wonder that my husband hasn’t choked on my hatred-laced meals.
Honestly, if I could I would choose to go out for dinner 7 days a week. Unfortunately, we don’t have that kind of money (or any kind of money for that matter). Also, my husband really enjoys a home-cooked meal – and why wouldn’t he? It’s not like HE has to cook it. Why not, you ask? Because that would mean that I have to do the dishes. I don’t do dishes.
Now that I think about it though, my fondest memories of cooking have involved the consumption of extraordinary amounts of wine and some loud off-key singing while pottering away in the kitchen. For obvious reasons, alcohol consumption – extraordinary or otherwise – is out of the question at the moment. Singing on my part should always be out of the question.
So where does that leave us? With a whole bunch of uninspired stews. (The hubs knows better than to say ANYTHING negative about my cooking because he would most likely get a fork shoved into his eye and then be forced to eat the very food he had dissed everyday for about a month. With his one eye.) Stews are great because I can just leave them to simmer while I do more productive things with my time, like check Facebook.
To show you that I’m not lying, here’s a photo of Tuesday night’s stew – chicken. I’m kind of hoping that a photo will make up for how excessively random this post was. Everyone likes photos. So, yay.