Having been treated to the extremely rare opportunity of Grumpy Pants and I having some time to catch up during the day – or, you know, at all – we opted for meeting for a quick lunch together.
Quite surprisingly, before I left to meet him, I had actually remembered to take something out of the freezer for dinner.
This is why I don’t slow cook. Slow cooking requires some sort of being organised before 2.00p.m., which is generally the time I go “oh, fuck it! I need to get something out for dinner!”
Anyhoo, lunch and a lovely time spent with my husband was had, the round trip to collect offspring from school done and we head home to psych myself up for cooking a meal and heading to basketball training.
I glance at my desk as I walk in and eye off the massive pile of ‘stuff’ that I really just want to get done. There really is nothing quite like the joy of completing a project, regardless of how much I have enjoyed working on it.
Besides, I wasn’t hungry.
If I’m not hungry, then I don’t have to cook dinner, right?
I delegated, mostly along the lines of “I’m not hungry, so if you want to eat, you’ll have to cook something yourself.”
It worked. My kids love food, so it’s not like them cooking is a big deal.
Monkey Boy does, because he is awesome like that. Also, he loves food the most.
He did, however, also manage to burn some water, which is a talent I think he picked up from me.
I discover this upon my return from basketball, and find the brown, burny bits on the bottom of a saucepan.
Never fear! I do actually know a solution to this, and I add water to the pot, and a spoonful of bicarb soda and let it simmer away.
Until I remembered it, of course, and found I had managed to boil all that water away and burn the pot again.
I’m freaking rocking it, tonight!
I start again, whilst Monkey Boy politely giggles away behind me, cross my fingers and repeat my oft used mantra “please work, please work, please work”.
Remembering it this time, I check in often and take in the still horribly burnt bottom of the pot. Dispensing of the water and not holding out a great deal of hope for my domestic qualities of the goddess-like type, I grab a cloth and wipe it out.
Miraculously, the burnt bits wipe off and the pot bottom is fabulously clean.
I am more than a little surprised.
Also, clearly, excited as I call Monkey Boy and give him some kind of domestic spiel about the importance and myriad practicalities of bi-carb soda and how he should retain this information as it is one of those Life Skills he will need.
He, too, is obviously enthralled by my domesticity and tells me so.
“Yeah, you’re rockin’ that pot, Mum. Keep it up.”
I shall buy him Margaret Fulton’s Household Tips book for his birthday.