A few years ago, I had to stop eating everything that tastes good. One after another, food groups dropped like flies until all that was left was chicken, white rice and avocado. It was decidedly less than fun.
We had a nine-year-old over for a play date today and something traumatic dawned on me: I am so not cool.
Until recently, I had never really seen food as a means to an end. The world has so many delicious food combinations to enjoy. I couldn’t imagine throwing away the chance for a fabulous meal from this cornucopia just for the purpose of sustenance (says the woman who used to eat popcorn for dinner). Enter motherhood and the tune changes. All of a sudden, meals become more of prerequisite for basic function rather than an enjoyable taste experience.
Back when I used to eat gluten, these glorious goodies could be seen making the trip to my mouth on a regular basis. My good friend, Christine, brought me a batch not long after we got home from the hospital with our first burrito. They have been a staple in our house ever since.
According to new conventional wisdom, menu planning is the key to modern domestic bliss. In the absence of cloning machines that would allow us to successfully cook, clean, entertain children and be good partners all while making good coin, this one little task is a supposed godsend. After all, staring into the refrigerator has never resulted in a roast chicken jumping into my hands, and if it did, I’d probably throw the chicken out.
Am trying not to be offended by the fact that the first time the boy did not decorate the floor with his lunch was the time it came out of a box.