I find myself once again invoking the 12-hour rule. Crazy. Actually, I only missed it by half an hour, but cooking tonight would have also involved a stop at the grocery store, and it was just too much. I really find that it's important for me to try to have a reasonably sane Monday to keep from being really depleted by Friday. Therefore, it was Chick-Fil-A night. And even that, my friends, seemed as if the food gods conspired against me in retaliatory anger for so many non-cooking nights.
“What?” you ask. “Fast food. Chain. What can go wrong?”
Plenty. First of all, the “Fil-A” part of my sandwich only covered about half the bun. It sort of looked like two fingers and half a palm, and was about 2x3 inches overall. The coleslaw, which was my “fresh” food of the day, was definitely over its prime. But hey, the Diet Coke was just fine—nice and fizzy!
I came home and consoled myself with a slice of lemon cake, a hot bath, and a look through the stack of new cookbooks that just arrived. That’s right—I just keep feeding my addiction. Unfortunately, the Husband was home and intercepted the package. I just plead, “Hobby, honey.” He sort of secretly rolls his eyes, but it’s cheaper than some hobbies, and he benefits, too. After all, I could take up making beaded jewelry (which I secretly lust after), and I’ll bet he wouldn’t wear it. But he DOES get to eat what I cook. That’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it!
Now I’m off to take something out of the freezer so I can cook tomorrow night without the necessity of a grocery stop.