Julep: Friends, I am tired of cooking.

To be clear, it is not just the act of standing over the stove that has worn me out. That alone I don't mind so much. But I am tired tired ... 

... TIRED of deciding what nutritious combination of foodstuffs this whole family is going to ingest in a given evening. Tired of making sure I pick the right components up at the grocery to assemble seven reasonably healthy dinnertime meals every week, tired of figuring out which one I can throw together in the limited window before somebody has to be at Scouts/ sports practice/ piano lesson/ dance class, tired of fielding the complaints from the children. WHY didn't I remember since the last time we ate this six months ago that you don't LIKE ravioli, you only like TORTELLINI.  

Once upon a time, this family had two adults who cooked. One of them was better at cooking planned meals, and the other was the one who could throw together a meal from practically anything. He actually looked forward to it and bragged about his Iron Chef worthy skills. So there were some days a week that I planned a meal and cooked it, and other days that he just nosed around the kitchen and generated dinner. Those days are long since past. Ever since the COVID period where he worked 20 hours a day, he stopped appearing regularly at the dinner hour. Now he's like a special guest star - and his cooking is limited to his particular specialties like chili or grilling steaks, almost always on the weekend so that he can spend hours on it and dirty every dish in the kitchen for me to wash, after assuring me that he'll "get to it later."

Today was a long day at work. I realize it is only Tuesday, but I swear and affirm that somehow I have already filled four whole workdays this week. The last thing I did before leaving the office tonight was document my discussion with an employee for HR, which tells you plenty. When I got outside, my car was approximately ten thousand degrees Fahrenheit, since the deceptively pleasant weather lulled me into forgetting that if I don't put up my sunshade, the western orientation of the parking lot means that I will broil upon entry.

So with this as a background, I called Mr. J to ask if he would be home for dinner. "Yes," he confidently announced. [Reader, observe: nine times out of ten this confident announcement is followed by him getting home well past dinner time.] Great, I replied; what are you cooking?

Mr. J: Well, what do we have?

Me: I have no idea. I am just so tired of figuring out what to eat every night. This week is particularly bad because I have all the easy dinners I could think of lined up for Sitter [who is staying with the kids for three nights while we celebrate our anniversary in New Orleans]. 

Mr. J: I mean, I guess I can figure it out.

Me: That would be awesome. Thank you. I'll see you at home in a little minute. Bye! [I quickly hang up the phone so that he cannot back out.]

Less than one minute later - the phone rings back.

Mr. J: Hey, when you get home, why don't you look in the freezer and cupboards and see what we have. Then you can let me know if I need to stop at the store on the way home for something.

Me: If I have to do that, I might as well cook myself. If you're not home by 6, I'll just find something for everyone to eat except for you.

It's 6:09. Guess what I'm about to start doing.