B is for Basagna
We had my son’s favorite meal on Sunday, basagna. He is always asking me, “When are we going to have basagna?” My kids must not be aware that with my repertoire of ten things I can stand to make, basgana comes around quite often. Now, let me be clear here, I’m not a bad cook. In fact, the things I do get around to cooking are quite splendid, even if I’m the only one who thinks so, right dear husband? (Okay, that’s a discussion for another time.) I have even been asked for a recipe here and there. I make one mean pot of homemade chicken noodle soup and someone just asked me for my salsa recipe this morning, so there!
But seriously, I’m missing some girlie cooking gene that everyone else seems to have. There are just so many other things I would rather be doing than slaving in the kitchen. I would, in fact, rather clean my bathrooms than be in charge of a meal. I’m pretty sure it has something to do with my unsophisticated palette. I’m just not a fan of “fancy” foods, as I like to call them. Fancy foods would consist of anything with over four ingredients in the making or anything I can’t grab at the SuperWalmart. If the ingredient list involves going to a special store to find a gourmet ingredient, you can fuggedabaoutit!! And I haven’t even mentioned my “delicate constitution,” as my husband likes to call it. My stomach seems to rebel against fancy foods. And even some not so fancy foods. Any suggestions in this area would be helpful.
My sister loves to cook and is, in fact, nearly obsessive about it. She says she wakes up in the morning thinking about what meals they will have that day. What a hoot! I think about meals right around the time my kids start yelling at me, “What kind of a mother are you? You’re supposed to feed us!” I actually have a cheat sheet posted in my kitchen of the things I cook, lest I forget the ten items I can actually be bothered with. Of course, this list doesn’t include cereal for dinner at least once a week (that would just be silly). Cereal night is usually on Tuesday, when everyone needs to be at different places at different times. Oh puhleeze, people, do you not read the cereal labels? It’s fortified! Nuf said. Nor does the list include other breakfast items for dinner, which we do often. French toast, pancakes, crepes. Because, seriously, who can eat that stuff in the mornings?
I feel for my kids, but figure they only have to put up with this for about eighteen years, then they can go out and discover the great big world of fine cuisine on their own. Meanwhile, I’ll be happy at home with my pan of basagna.