My feelings towards food change more often than a chameleon on a colour wheel. Most of the time I love it. Some of the time I hate it. This is usually when I’ve laboured long and hard on some nutritionally sanctimonious meal for my lovely children only to have one stick up her nose and the other throw it on the floor.
I crave the idea of a big Sunday dinner with guests and side dishes and warm buns in the oven (literally, not figuratively). This undoubtedly stems from my childhood when I lived for the excitement of dinner guests. It meant two things: we got to stay up late and we didn’t have to eat fruit for dessert.
I eat almost the same thing for breakfast every day yet I cannot stand dinnertime repetition. I can make a decent lunchtime salad out of whatever I see in the fridge, though I would never serve it to anyone else. (You put mashed potatoes on a salad? Yes, I did).
Other tidbits: I make menus but never adhere to them, I read cookbooks for fun and I like to make the kidlette’s food look exciting (though I don’t know if I’ll ever go this far).