I like to cook. But I’m a busy person. For most of my meals, I try to come up with something that’s made from scratch, with ingredients that were grown, and/or raised humanely. I stay away from overly processed foods about 90% of the time. Here’s a few examples of my most popular half-scratch meals.
Regardless of what kind of job you have, getting dinner on the table when you are a busy parent is no easy task, but it’s not impossible. I also cook from scratch as much as possible. Here’s a few tips on how to get homemade-ish meals on the table that your family will love.
Now that I’m reaching the twenty-five-twice mark (it’s my age and I’ll describe it in my terms) I’ve become fond of eating real, healthy food, 90% of the time. What I do the other 10% of the time is mine, and I own it. But if I can make good choices most of the time, I’m good.
This morning, I got out of bed. To make matters worse, I decided to bake something, at the ungodly hour of 6:30 a.m. I hate baking for one reason: I don’t like to measure. I’ll make a sauce, throw together a stew or soup, all without benefit of measuring a single thing.
What I like about bread pudding, in addition to being torn between eating it and rubbing it all over my husband, is this: I don’t have to be exact with my measurements. I can slap it together. While I drink. It doesn’t get any better than that for a busy mom who likes to cook.
Now I’m serving up the juicy, fork-tender meat with the browned exterior that a crock pot just can’t deliver. I make everything from coq-au-vin to lamb stew, and even blackberry cobbler with the help of my little friend.
We recently got a new favorite toy in our household. I know that some families get jet skis, or multi-room tents, but we got a recliner. Yes, we’re an active, healthy family, but like the Most Interesting Man in the World says, “I don’t always lie around, but when I do, it’s in a vegetative state.”
Why leave it to your grieving relatives, who will be furiously looking for your will, to make important decisions? Regardless of how comfortable you are thinking about your own demise, isn’t it your responsibility? And besides, wouldn’t it be nice to have the last word, once and for all?
Where did the time go? I don’t just mean this summer; I mean the last 16 summers. Seems like just yesterday I was packing bikes and kids into the truck and heading to the elementary school to teach them how to ride a bike, which was impossible on the hill we lived on.
The elephant in the memory room, so to speak, is age. How does one compensate for the decline in memory as one ages? Buy more Post-its? Put chalkboards in every room? (The bedroom chalkboard could get interesting.) Set alarms for our impending alarms? Surely, there’s got to be another way.