We get out of the car and Ian carries Iliana across the parking lot, grateful she's not actually asleep. The drive to Shoreline is just long enough to make her drowsy and she's at the stage where a nap will ruin an already tenuous bedtime; afternoon errands like this are always a gamble.
One of the worst parts about being married to Ian is that Ian is a man who doesn't like custard. Maybe that doesn't sound too horrible to some people, but for someone who thinks of custard pie as a top tier comfort food, this can be problematic.
I've never been able to figure out just why he doesn't like custard. Every time I ask, I get vague I-just-don't-wanna answers that I tried to accept, but. I mean. Custard.
"We need to make these cheesey bacon wedges for brother's breakfast."
"No, I want to!"
"Of course, you're my helper right?"
"I'm a good jobber!"
"You are a good jobber. Now let's get the flour out."
"No. First you have to draw me a kitty face."
"Can't we do it after we make the--"
We brought in the groceries, filled the refrigerator and the cupboards, and put the empty tote bags away. I tucked foil lasagna pans onto a shelf and hung my new 16 quart stock pot on the rack. And then, for a moment, I just marveled.
This was SRS BSNS, and it was all mine.
My job as a housewife is to make sure that my family is managed on a day to day basis. I cook, mostly. That's my primary superpower. I am okay at laundry. I am horrible at scrubbing. My bathroom is a failure of sanitation.
Two months ago, we got notice from the IRS that our monthly payment on our 2008 tax bill was being increased. We've been chipping away at that gargantuan debt the best we can, but still there's a lien on the house and a hefty lump of cash deducted from our checking account every month. But since the IRS finally calculated that we wouldn't be able to pay off our debt within their 10 year time budget, the hefty lump had to get a bit heftier.
Yeah, totally. Of course I cried.
I could never sugar and cream enough to make all that bitter better. Even the relentless availability of latte and mocha and caramel macchiato did little to make her darkness palatable.
Eventually I started taking sips of Ian's undoctored black.
He's ridiculous, I decided. You can't possibly just like it straight.
Monday's original meal plan was beef stew, simmered slowly all day until the meat was fall apart tender. But when five o'clock hit and it wasn't in the Dutch oven, I needed a quick replacement. I'd been feeling particularly sad all day so I wanted some comfort food. My flavor of comfort? Is always served on rice.
Growing up, we had the same rotation of weeknight meals that could be made by a young child armed with a seasoning packet, ground beef and tomato paste. My sister and I alternated cooking and freezing those dinners on the weekend and then reheating them on the appointed evening. When I first discovered that there were other ways to make spaghetti sauce, I nearly lost my biscuits. My high school friends and I went through this phase where we got together at my house and cooked some disgusting concoction in an attempt, I think, to ruin my mother's cookware.
The easiest way to keep up with all my posts is to subscribe to my newsletter. I'm not gonna share any of your information, and an unsubscrbe link is included in every email. Thank you for joining!