This was not a good week for me to be in the kitchen. So far I managed to spill uncooked spaghetti noodles all over the floor (by grabbing the wrong end of the package when I went to store the noodles in my pasta container); when I went to shake out my vacuum filter into the kitchen garbage can the damned thing fell to the floor instead and spread black dust and fuzz all over the floor and underneath my stove. Shortly thereafter I banged my head on a cupboard door and pinched my fingers in the can opener.

 

Because my husband has taken on extra work (he now has two homebound Medicare patients which he visits twice a week each), I’ve been trying to be kind by making meals for him on a regular basis. Contrary to poplar belief, I don’t mind cooking as long as it doesn’t interfere with my writing schedule. However, kitchen duty has interrupted my work with annoying persistence lately, and I’m ready to barricade myself in the computer room with a lifeline to the coffee pot. I finally put my foot down and told my husband the weekends were my own – no cooking or tidying up after him. I find this solution to be reasonable - after all, my writing schedule is considered work as well (by me, at least), and he only sees his clients during the week.

 

So aside from breakfast, our weekend meals are consisting of take away food such as Kentucky Fried Chicken and Taco Bell. Fast food normally makes me feel queasy after the first go-round, so I have been slipping in salads, yogurt (vanilla bean), cereals and skim milk into my daily cuisine rather than consuming the barrage of breaded poultry and reconstituted side dishes. Since my husband is not a big fan of salads, he seems quite happy with the fast food fare although I force greens on him now and then.

 

The recent lack of culinary art in my kitchen is a shame, really; our cupboards are full of perfectly good food, and the refrigerator is fair to bursting. There is always the week ahead to look forward to – or rather dread, depending on my mind set.