Deciphering what I scrawled on a Tupperware lid for a container I chucked in the freezer months ago is not one of my better skills. But I can always use it to my advantage.
The other night I defrosted what I thought was beef stew and came to discover later that it was this mysterious opaque liquid. It tasted like a sweaty pig. Ah, ham stock! But I had no time left to make pea soup for dinner.
So we ordered from McDonald’s.
Now some might suggest that I slow down and take the time to properly label these containers. But here’s the method to my madness.
Four o’clock in the afternoon rolls around. I haven’t got a clue what to make for dinner because I don’t want to cook dinner anyway. About this time the kids start bugging me: “What’s for dinner?” And they get one of three answers: “Food,” “I don’t know,” and “Your guess is as good as mine.”
So I open up the freezer and search for one of my mystery bowls. And then I pray that whatever it is, it’s really gross and we get to order out for pizza.
But there’s more! I have to wait until most of the cereal in the house is gone so my husband doesn’t proclaim that Happy Pops are good enough for dinner.
I also have to work up a sweat and look like I’ve been run over by a truck when he walks in the door. This will cue him that I’ve had a bad day and ordering out is the least he can do for me…his poor wife…who selflessly brought five children into the world.
But I don’t tell him that. Knowing my husband it wouldn’t work. But sometimes he takes pity on me if I’ve put in a good effort.
So just before he gets home I tidy up –not something I am prone to do so it’s a pleasant shock when he walks in the door. This is how I work up a sweat. For that ‘truck ran’ me over’ look I just have the boys start yelling each other on cue (“Hey, yell louder and you’ll get ham and pineapple on that pizza!”) so I can look wearily at my husband and ask him, “How was YOUR day?” as if mine was so horrible his couldn’t compare.
It takes a lot of effort to get out of cooking dinner, probably even more than it takes to cook it. But I don’t care. If Momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. I mean, after all, that IS why they invented drive-thrus right? So I can drive through in my jammies and pick up dinner?