"What's for dinner, Mom?"
Soon the man will send a text, if it is one of the nights he doesn't have pool, and ask what I am planning for dinner.
I don't know. I rarely know. I stopped making weekly menus years ago about the time it stopped being fun and started being drudgery. I like to cook. It used to bring me joy to be able to create something for my family that not only pleased them, but nourished them as well. Over time, that satisfying sense of pride has diminished until it is just another chore like laundry.
I have one diner that is extremely picky and really only wants to eat things found on any children's menu, like nuggets, grilled cheese, pizza, pasta with butter, macaroni and cheese, hot dogs, or hamburgers. I have another eater that doesn't like cheese, and is not a big meat eater. The other mouth to feed doesn't eat sugars of any kind, flour, grains, or carbohydrates.
I often end up making at least two separate meals a night, and sometimes three. I eat either whatever someone else is having, or a combination of the meals. I resort to making scrambled eggs for dinner at least two to three times a month as it is the one thing they all will eat although I am not a fan of eggs myself.
When there are limits to what you can do with your creativity, it stops being fun. It starts being work. I don't have the time or energy to locate recipes that tick all the boxes of my family's likes, wants, and needs. I wish I was June Jetson and could enter the meal choices into a computer, only to have them promptly delivered by a robotic arm to my waiting family around the dinner table.
Ugh. Here they come again.
"Mom, did you decide what we are having for dinner?"
Looks like I am ordering one cheese free pizza, one cheese pizza, and pulling a steak out of the freezer.
