I sometimes forget that I have a kitchen. Sometimes, I remember, and that’s when I go on these sprees. Whole months go by when Mitch and I eat cereal for dinner, or quesadillas, or spaghetti (it’s usually one quick item for several months straight).
I’m telling you this in a moment of vulnerability. For a girl who doesn’t care much one way or the other for “keeping house,” this is actually embarrassing–at times, we do dishes maybe once a week, and only then because we’ve run out of bowls. If you’re picturing dishes stacked to the ceiling, that’s not quite right (though it is close), because eating cereal for two meals a day doesn’t generate much beyond dirty bowls and spoons. So. Sometimes that’s the state of things.
But then I remember about the kitchen, and I go nuts baking brownies and bread and fruit crisp and cookies and cheesecake. I make soup, homemade spaghetti sauce, curry, tofu stir-fry, baked eggplant–all kinds of stuff. I dig out the recipe books and go to town, making dinner, dessert and sometimes even drinks (like homemade hot chocolate–yummm…) from scratch. I clean up after myself and everything.
I’m in one of these phases right now. In fact, as I write I’ve got onion soup simmering on one burner while croutons bake in the oven. I’m multitasking. It’s rad. And every time this happens, I hope like crazy that it sticks, but then I get tired of coming home and spending a hour-and-a-half making dinner, and it’s back to cereal.
Oh, to be more consistent. Or, oh, to have a bigger kitchen.
That’s usually my excuse.