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I hit a culinary wall tonight. Watching James all day, while working (poor kid), I was supposed to put the chicken on for broth sometime this morning, but got so busy and overwhelmed that I literally didn’t think about dinner until, well, dinner. And for a minute there, I experienced total rebellion. I didn’t want to cook. I didn’t want to have a homecooked meal with vegetables and known ingredients. I wanted to perch on a barstool and order an overpriced appetizer to pick at alongside my bourbon, neat. I wanted to look indifferent, to be that mystery woman with no known attachments who rebuffs anyone with the temerity to approach her.
And then I caved. As Jason pointed out, the only real alternative was to eat sandwiches for dinner from the little store down the road, and the thought of lunch meat on my dinner plate brought my inner Martha Stewart (a different sort of femme fatale) back to the driver’s seat. I may not have made the stock-based soup I originally planned, but the potato croquettes I whipped up as a side dish weren’t bad.
