Sunday went something like this.
I got up super duper early and -- because just this once I finally could -- I went to Publix just as it opened at 7am to do the grocery I've been putting off for over a week.
By 8am I am home again, lugging more meat and fruit and veggies than this house has seen all year. I unload, sort and put things away and settle into a long morning of grading.
Around noon I put a pork tenderloin in the oven and start pots of black beans and rice. Soon enough, the house smells like garlic and love.
When the roast finishes, I take it out and let it rest on the counter.
Zoe takes one look at it, and despite the fact that pork roast is her favorite food, pronounces it is a COW PENIS and she isn't going to eat it.
I try to tell her cows don't have penises. I try to tell her pork isn't cow.
She refuses to listen.
She refuses to even try it.
Zack looks at it (respectfully, and maybe a little awed) shakes his head and refused to even try it.
Fine, fine, I tell her to make herself a sandwich, and that I'm not cooking any more today.
She settles back into Hannah Montana (the LAST ONE EVER) and I finish grading my quizzes.
When I'm all done recording grades, alphabetizing them, and putting them away, I head to the kitchen to try the pork.
It is juicy. It is crispy. It's the best damn pork I ever made, so I declare a small holiday and make myself a sandwich with it on Cuban bread.
It's so good I want to dance while I eat it.
Until about two hours later when I got an outrageously bad feeding, dash to toilet and and throw it up.
Honestly, as far as throwing up goes, that wasn't the worst ever. It was fast and it didn't taste bad at all.
I remember when I was in labor for Zoe and I had just eaten a blueberry donut, then a minute later threw it up and it looked and tasted almost exactly the same. Laughing between contractions I announced that I finally understood why dogs ate their vomit. An hour later, I became a parent, and since then I've been struggling with what to feed myself and my kids.
Zoe stands outside the door while the waves of what I decide are food poisoning roll over me.
She comforts me with her words, and when I stop wretching, admonishes me, saying this is what I get for eating the cow penis.
I'm too tired to fight.
I nap.
Later, Zoe and Zack eat Subway for dinner.
Zoe has her usual 6" turkey with an entire salad on it.
Zack orders a 12' ham sandwich, uncut.
Uncut, I ask him, you sure?
Yes, he said, eyeing his sandwich in front of him.
I want it to be as big as that Cow Penis from earlier today, he says with a big smile.
And now you know exactly when and where and why I gave up on cooking Sunday dinner.
I got up super duper early and -- because just this once I finally could -- I went to Publix just as it opened at 7am to do the grocery I've been putting off for over a week.
By 8am I am home again, lugging more meat and fruit and veggies than this house has seen all year. I unload, sort and put things away and settle into a long morning of grading.
Around noon I put a pork tenderloin in the oven and start pots of black beans and rice. Soon enough, the house smells like garlic and love.
When the roast finishes, I take it out and let it rest on the counter.
Zoe takes one look at it, and despite the fact that pork roast is her favorite food, pronounces it is a COW PENIS and she isn't going to eat it.
I try to tell her cows don't have penises. I try to tell her pork isn't cow.
She refuses to listen.
She refuses to even try it.
Zack looks at it (respectfully, and maybe a little awed) shakes his head and refused to even try it.
Fine, fine, I tell her to make herself a sandwich, and that I'm not cooking any more today.
She settles back into Hannah Montana (the LAST ONE EVER) and I finish grading my quizzes.
When I'm all done recording grades, alphabetizing them, and putting them away, I head to the kitchen to try the pork.
It is juicy. It is crispy. It's the best damn pork I ever made, so I declare a small holiday and make myself a sandwich with it on Cuban bread.
It's so good I want to dance while I eat it.
Until about two hours later when I got an outrageously bad feeding, dash to toilet and and throw it up.
Honestly, as far as throwing up goes, that wasn't the worst ever. It was fast and it didn't taste bad at all.
I remember when I was in labor for Zoe and I had just eaten a blueberry donut, then a minute later threw it up and it looked and tasted almost exactly the same. Laughing between contractions I announced that I finally understood why dogs ate their vomit. An hour later, I became a parent, and since then I've been struggling with what to feed myself and my kids.
Zoe stands outside the door while the waves of what I decide are food poisoning roll over me.
She comforts me with her words, and when I stop wretching, admonishes me, saying this is what I get for eating the cow penis.
I'm too tired to fight.
I nap.
Later, Zoe and Zack eat Subway for dinner.
Zoe has her usual 6" turkey with an entire salad on it.
Zack orders a 12' ham sandwich, uncut.
Uncut, I ask him, you sure?
Yes, he said, eyeing his sandwich in front of him.
I want it to be as big as that Cow Penis from earlier today, he says with a big smile.
And now you know exactly when and where and why I gave up on cooking Sunday dinner.
