What am I Cooking?

I have no idea.

The end.













If only it worked that way.  I went on strike last night.  I looked two separate family members straight in the eye and said, "I'm not cooking.  You can't make me."  I wish I had recorded the looks of bewilderment.  The pathetic looks of bewilderment.  The pathetic, terrified looks of bewilderment.  So pathetic were they that I almost caved.  Instead, I held my ground, poured myself a bowl of cereal, and hid in the corner away from their pathetic, terrified, bewildered stares.

Okay, so two out of four could have cared less.  They overheard, rejoiced silently, and proceeded to stuff their hollow legs with every form of carbohydrate known to man.

Seeing how I am officially out of carbohydrates, I must shop.  In order to shop, I must make a list.  In order to make a list, my brain must wake up and start working.

I can't do it.

The end.

Big fat siiiiiiiiighhhhhhh...

(In no particular order and subject to change based on the barometric pressure, my hormones, and the price of tea in China):

That dang Whole Chicken.  Remember him?  I was perfectly happy to let him sit in the freezer 'til Jesus comes, but he's taking up valuable space.  Rocky told me what to do with him awhile back.  I'll be needing her to walk me through that again...

Whatever you do with the leftovers of the Dang Chicken.  I'll make stock, or broth, or whichever you make with a chicken carcass.  I will not make chicken and noodles, because I made it last week and it was (quite possibly) the worst chicken soup in the history of the world, which meant that I spent the entire week foisting it on (upon?) my unwilling family.  Why was it so bad, you ask?  I know.  I knew as soon as I took the first bite.  It was such a rookie mistake that I'm not willing to publicly own it.  For the record: I think the recipe is lovely and perfect.  You should try it.  Just don't do what I did.

Curried Sweet Potato and Lentil Soup.  I found this recipe in my Prevention magazine.  They had me at curry.  They had me at sweet potato.  They had me at coconut milk.  They had me at soup.  The fact that it is garnished with cilantro is seriously the sweetest topping on the best (cup)cake ever. 

The quiche recipe from Veg Week that I have yet to make.  I can picture it, hot and bubbly and blog-worthy in my Polish pottery ramekins.  I can picture me, steel-faced and unyielding, assuring my people that yes, this is dinner.  I can picture them, too well-trained to complain, yet sullen and silent.  I can picture late-evening kitchen crashing, by people who did not eat enough dinner to get them through the night.  Fun.  The only possible remedy to this is the following (and listen up, because this might be the most wisdom I can ever offer you): I will starve them.  There will be no after-sports snacks.  There will be no post-run pantry free-for-all.  I will make sure they are so desperate for sustenance that my cute little ramekins appear to be turkey legs, or juicy hamburgers, to their pre-and teenaged minds.  Then, they will eat them so fast and so furiously and so thankfully that complaints will not have time to enter their hunger-addled brains.

And I will sit back and laugh silently and revel at my genius.

Homemade pizza.  Topped with whatever inspires me at the moment of creation.  Last week it was pepperoni for the man-children and pesto, mozz and tomatoes for the WH and me.  Salad always goes with pizza, and ours always have fun additions like feta, and Craisins, and pecans to encourage the salad-haters among us.

My BFF's Spicy Dr. Pepper Shredded Pork, with only a little resentment at not having come up with it first.  I'll whip up some coleslaw (from a bag, I'm not Superwoman) and maybe some sweet potato fries to go along with it.

That should be enough, but I can whip up breakfast in a pinch.  I also have the ingredients (minus tomatoes) for a pasta salad, always a hit (since Charlotte told me to use Ken's Steakhouse Lite Northern Italian with Basil and Romano dressing).  This is one where I can throw in broccoli and not get too much flak from the child who thinks he can give me flak just because his grandfather hates broccoli.

When he was six or so, I told him that when he is a grandfather, he won't have to eat broccoli.  He gave an exuberant fist-pump and cried out, "Yessss!"

It was awesome.

The end.