What smells like ass? Asks my teenager son, as he walked into the kitchen.
Um, that would be dinner.
It had been weeks since I had prepared a “proper” dinner for my family.
After watching a few episodes of Cooked on Netflix, I felt nostalgic about cooking and preparing a wholesome meal for my family. The show documents various cultures around the world about food preparation and how, in our busier-and-busier lives, many of us have lost touch with taking the time and the steps to prepare a meal. Made with good ingredients and made with love. The narrator and author, Michael Pollan, says that we all have good memories of being “cooked for” and how that makes us feel cared for and loved.
When I have the time and make the time, I do enjoy cooking for my family. It’s just that they don’t always like what I cook.
That night, I baked potatoes. I broiled some cod with fresh parmesan. I roasted broccoli drizzled with olive oil. (Fish + parmesan + broccoli = stink.)
My intentions were to invite and welcome my family to the table. Yet, the smells turned people away. Except for Otis.
Who doesn’t love Chinese food? I am definitely a fan of potstickers. With their golden brown outsides and stinky little cabbagy, juicy insides. Yum!
Yet, I am not a fan of eating pork and usually, Chinese restaurants only have that kind. But there’s one potsticker brand that I love love love. And they’ve got chicken in them. And no MSG (except for the optional soy sauce) and no trans fat.
I could well be Ling Ling’s next brand ambassador. Ya never know. You may be seeing a banner ad very soon on my website. Just sayin’.
Buy a bag at Costco. Throw it into your freezer. And then, at 7:00 p.m. (yeah, we eat late), when you’re like “what the hell are we having for dinner tonight?” Just grill up a pan full of these beauties in some olive oil. And ya’d think you’re in Chinatown.
We all know about the “witching hour.” The term we use to refer to the time in the evening when Moms turn into witches and kids turn into beasts. One word: mayhem. But witching hour is a bit of a misnomer around here. I now call this the “bitching hour” because this is what roughly happens around our house at twilight:
Shuttling to-and-from activities.
But I ran across a Tweet today with an even better descriptor, that literally cracked me up. I conclude with a Tweet from @herbadmother:
“I don’t know why they call it a ‘witching hour.’ It would be more accurate to call it ‘hours of batshit honey badger batshittery.”
But that is kind of mouthful, so let’s go with “batshittery hour,” shall we?
I admit, I am not the greatest of cooks. But I make a mean grilled cheese sandwich. This is a staple at our house at dinnertime. They are quick and easy to make and sooo yummy. Throw some turkey slices on them and–pow–you’ve got a protein-packed, golden brown sandwich. If all goes well. However…
I also admit that I am also a fan of Facebook and Twitter. But these addictions don’t go so well with cooking grilled cheese sandwiches. I get caught up in commenting on other peoples’ posts, posting pictures of my beautiful sandwiches, and yapping on about what a great cook I am. Then what happens? Burnt grilled cheese.