Dinner (almost) disaster

My refrigerator is jacked up. The top shelf freezes and the bottom shelf rots. It took me a while to recognize that my refrigerator was (is) the problem. I kept taking food back to the store. I let THEM throw it away—don’t need that crap stinking up my garage! After the third week in a row that I returned meat, I told my husband, “NO one buys rotten meat this often—it’s gotta be our problem.” So we placed thermometers in the refrigerator. Top read 40 and the bottom read 53 (can’t believe I just admitted that). YIKES!

So every day I adjust the temperate just a little bit cooler. I thought we were in good shape until yesterday morning. I pulled the chicken to put in the crock pot and it was rotten. DAG NABBIT!! (I assure you that the real-life version was much more colorful than “dag nabbit”.)

I’m one of 11 children. I was 9 or 10 when my mother taught me how to cook—for 13 people at a time. I learned to plan the menu, make the grocery list, and prepare the food so that everything is done at the same time. And now, 22 years later, I sit down on Saturday or Sunday morning and make a list of 6 meals (meat, veggie, starch). Then I make a list of all the ingredients I need to make those meals. My lists are organized in the order they are found in the grocery store. I tape my menu to the refrigerator and everyone knows what we’re having for dinner every night…and whatever we eat for dinner tonight is what you get for lunch tomorrow.

The point is that rotten chicken at 6 a.m. on Thursday morning jacks my day. I’ve had this meal planned since Saturday…and now it’s rotten. The bad news is that I can’t plan meals at 6 a.m. The good news is that, I don’t have to. I always have hot dogs and mac-n-cheese on hand.

We had mummy dogs with mac-n-cheese and apple sauce—but you have to say it real spooky, like “muh-uh-uh-uh-uh meeeee dogs”. I took pizza dough (Friday night’s dinner) and cut it into strips, then wrapped each hot dog and baked at 350 for 15 minutes. Well, every time I said “mummy dogs”, I said it all spooky like. By the end of the night, my daughter (6 years old) says, “Mom, will you please stop doing that. You’re giving me a headache.”

Some day she’ll appreciate me.