Welcome to our reality of "Happily Ever After".. where dinner's always late-- and the clicker's probably lost.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Waking Up To Hot Crocked Chicken..
So.. things get busy. You're movin', you're groovin'. You've got dinner on the table, and another dinner in the crockpot for TOMORROW even. (Why? Cause you've got thawed chicken you've been meaning to cook for 5 days, you can't RE-freeze, and if you don't use it NOW, it's rotten.. and there goes 4 chicken breasts of the 60 you bought at the case sale.. DOWN the drain. We cannot be wasting perfectly good chicken in such times as these, now can we?) And then you're cleaning up dinner.. you're doin' dishes.. you're giving baths, homework advice, and tuck-ins.. and NEXT thing you know-- it's 7 a.m., and the house smells VERY strongly of crock-potted chicken. So if the now 12 hours it's been going isn't enough.. you get busy. You're rushin' kids to school, ya gotta fit in that work-out.. you really gotta SHOWER after that work-out (ESPECIALLY if you've worn that work-out get-up 2 days in a row like you KNOW you have..) gotta meet that friend for a birthday lunch, and you GOTTA read Sophie her new books from the book fair. Suddenly, it's 2:00. You MUST pick up your oldest from school, and you MUST get on-line and be sucked into the blog/facebook/snowboarding jacket websites for at LEAST a good hour.. before you realize you can't even SMELL the chicken anymore. You have become one with the overpowering stinch of it. And now.. NOW, 24 hours later, it is dinnertime. And there the chicken sits. Dark. Shriveled. "Well-done". And you serve it up. Because it's your chicken. And you cooked it.. and it will not go to waste.
I am a lucky wife, and mom of four little monkeys I love. I'm a bit of a wanna-be. A wanna-be screenwriter,wanna-be middle-aged not THAT famous of an actress , and wanna-be Tim McGraw groupie.. but happily settle with country concerts and some good long runs. I love cucumber slices on wheat thins, junior mints with popcorn, and anything yeasty.. (besides, infections, ofcourse.)
I indulge in lame reality shows, numerous hairbows for Sophie, and sitting in the sunshine.
I'm not unusually talented, but pretty condfident I can write ya a poem about anything.