Since morning sickness is finally in its last death throes, I’ve been able to accomplish a lot more these past few weeks. I can get off the couch, make myself a sandwich, even wash the dishes or do laundry! On rare occasions, I might even (gasp!) tidy up the living room. We’re still not exactly back to normal life, since we don’t have any air conditioning and it’s too hot to sleep in the bedroom, but we’re doing alright in the front room with a fan, a couch, and a futon.
Of course, I can’t really say I expect life to ever be normal again, now that we’re having a child.
Of course, I can’t really say we were ever normal people in the first place.
I digress. The point is, the other night, I decided to be functional. I decided to be bold, and daring, and domestic. I decided to make dinner. And since I didn’t want to use my energy to go shopping, I opened the freezer to see what options we had.
The freezer was dark, cold, and barren. It reminded me of Siberia.
I found the only meat in the house – a bag of frozen pork ribs – and put it in the crock pot with some potatoes and peas. We were out of butter, so my normal make-things-taste-fantastic trick was kaput. So I just put some water in there and called it soup. I went to brag to Ethan, and he suddenly looked alarmed. “That pork was still in the freezer?” ….
Yeah, apparently that pork has been in the freezer about as long as we’ve been married. Which is nearly a year. Good sign for our marriage… bad sign for that soup. Especially considering how many times we’ve thawed out the freezer in the past year. I just sat on the couch and cried. Ethan gently reminded me that I was crying over spoiled pork, kissed me, and left for work. I continued to sit on the couch and cry. Then I lay on the couch and cried. Then, somewhere within me, a tiny spark fanned into an angry flame, and I determined to make dinner, one way or another.
I drained out the water and threw away the “soup.” I cleaned the crock pot, then I put on a backpack and headed to campus, where there is occasionally a hidden basement stash of free vegetables from the BYU farm. (Basement of the Widtsoe building, people. We got a whole burlap sack of corn last year.) Unfortunately, there was no such free produce on this occasion. At this point, my angry energy was gone, and I couldn’t think of any food we had I wanted to eat. But hey – it was raining, which is great weather in Utah. So I just sat in the rain for a bit.
Somewhere between the absent zucchini and the existential rain watching, my dad called. He had a hankering for pasta, so my family was going to the Old Spaghetti Factory. He was wondering whether Ethan and I would care to join. Sadly, Ethan was still going to be at work for a few hours – but Dad just said, “Well, I guess we’ll have to buy him an entree on the way out. We’ll come down.” So I just sat and watched the rain some more before I came home. Ate some crackers to hold me over. And then went out for pasta.
I give myself an A for effort, but some days, cooking just isn’t in the cards. Some days, the Old Spaghetti Factory is what’s in the cards. I highly recommend the ravioli or the chicken penne. ♦