Hopscotch in Snowspangled

It’s the weekend. Kind of like a restart. Except you still have ten million things you didn’t do last week hanging over your head.

I’m peeved at my husband. (This is not new.) Today’s crime: he tried to call and change dinner plans after the food was purchased. You can change plans UP TO the minute I frickin pay for the plan. After that you are SOL. I happen to hate commercial spaghetti sauce and I don’t know why. I could MAKE spaghetti sauce, but the roommate (when will they go away) can’t handle crushed, diced, or stewed tomatoes. She’s okay with sauce. Fine.

But tomato sauce and hamburger is NOT spaghetti. Some people do seem to think it is. Nope.

So I have to buy commercial sauce (and not even the good one) and I just won’t eat that. Sometimes I just have noodles. Tonight I am having salmon and goat mac and cheese. (Try it, if you find it, because it is light and delicious and if you have dairy woes, you will not end up with three days of diarrhea.) I am considering crushing some mustard chips (dijon) and making a light crust for my salmon. I probably won’t.

Anyway, thirty minutes after I bought the shiz, he rings in and offers “we could have chicken and buttered noodles.”

Yeah, bitch, we coulda, if you HAD SAID SO BEFORE I BOUGHT FOOD.

Even Spawnetta glanced at the phone and said, “Dad Mom already bought the food.”

So the Autistibeast knows you can’t change dinner plans once the food is for real. How does my fifty-plus year old husband NOT know? I feel that’s a huge entitlement. He Had An Idea, and now Everything Will Be Fine and I should just do it his way.

Except I spent $40 (there was other stuff) and I’M gonna win because his money ain’t on the register. Mine is.

Seriously. When you have an idea like that…maybe you should just make a second dish and serve part tonight and part tomorrow. (I do try not to do that though). (Don’t want the kids to get the short-order idea in their heads.)

(But that roomie’s kid. Jesus on a jumped up Christcycle.)

Anyway. Gotta go home. Gotta make spaghetti. And one little salmon filet. (Which will actually probably end up being all four in the bag because these girls haven’t had a fish dinner all year and they’re starting to miss it something big. As in, they’ve suggested fish multiple times for the menu, but been gently dissuaded because I don’t want the roomie’s kid to make faces about the food ever. again. Her mom said she’d eat fish sticks…yeah, no. Also, I won’t eat fish sticks, because yuck.)

But at least I can look at my kids, who have been suggesting such “gross” things as Brussels sprouts, salmon, fish-burgers, quiche, lasagne florentine, curry…and I can know they’re going to be fine, food-wise. They’ll find something anywhere they eat. They have a basic faith that most things are pretty good. Dude, I caught Kitty putting rosemary on pork chops last week. (Long story short, her dad was yelling directions for slapping pork chops onto the broiler because he was “too sick” to come cook. She seasoned them, though. I could’ve cried.)

I’m pretty satisfied with how my kids approach food. (Except the mass quantities they do tend to inhale mean none of them are super slim. The twins are about a 13 junior, and Spawnetta is wearing my jeans right now. They’re loose, but…that’s just too close to a size 20.) But they are also like 5‘8”.

I wanted them to like food, enjoy food, try new food, explore food. Well, I guess I managed that. I also wanted them to have active lives, but then Dick Face decided he quit life and I haven’t yet motivated them all to get up and get out. The endless rain doesn’t help.

And it’s Washington, so don’t even say “it can’t rain all the time.” I’m pretty sure Washington evolved to be the one place where it CAN rain all the time.