Sunday Chef

Somewhere in the last two months, I have morphed into a Sunday chef.

Where the goal used to be to serve a hot, home cooked meal fresh out of the oven each and every night, the goal is now to serve a hot, home cooked meal and not burn my fingers on the microwave bowl as I remove the plate at the "ding!" and scream, "DINNER!" to Blair. 

There's a different mindset that comes with Sunday cooking. While I enjoy the cooking itself, there's a definite lunch lady production line technique behind the process.

Every Sunday around 1 pm, I barricade myself in the kitchen. I make a batch of hard-boiled eggs for the week and generally have anywhere from 1-3 pots of beans or lentils simmering on the stove top, depending on that week's recipes. I chop copious amounts of vegetables to have on hand for omelettes and salads throughout the week. I'm usually baking some form of chicken while also browning turkey in a non-stick skillet for a taco topping or maybe a chili. Last Sunday I gutted a rotisserie chicken, somehow managing to get chicken grease on EVERYTHING in the process. (There's a learning curve involved. Remember, I haven't worked with meat in a while.) 

When everything is finally mixed, stirred, baked, roasted, steamed, browned, seasoned and packed into the fridge, it's a huge feeling of accomplishment. And panic. Last Sunday I remember standing in front of my fridge, staring at tupperware stacked so high it was dimming the light and thinking, "That is a LOT of food to eat." 

Mondays are almost always a panic day. I'm freaking out that all this food will go bad before we can eat and I'm like an overbearing Italian mother as I beg Blair to "Eat, eat, eat." 

Tuesdays and Wednesdays are calmer. I enjoy the fruits of my labor. 

Thursdays I revert back to panic mode because now the food really will go bad if we don't finish it. Dinners tend toward a smorgasbord of leftovers, such as 3 Brussels sprouts, a handful of lentils, half a chicken breast, 1/3 of a baked salmon patty, and a questionable wilted kale salad. Blair will look at his plate, then raise an eyebrow to me. 

"Eat it," I say. "And if you know what's good for you, you'll make 'Mmmmm' sounds as you do it."

 Fridays usually catch me standing in front of an open fridge muttering, "Why is there no food? I made a ton of food. Where is  the food?!" This is how the last of the hardboiled eggs and the browned lettuce gets eaten. 

It also starts the cycle all over, where I vow to cook up a storm on Sunday, so we have enough food to get us through the week. 

Maybe no rotisserie chicken this week though. The cats are still sliding across the floor from all the residual grease.