It’s Sunday afternoon, and I just returned from my second trip to the grocery store today. Yes, you read that right: second. I don’t know when it happened, but somehow I have become someone who is always having to stop to pick up something for dinner, or a missing ingredient, or something crucial that cannot wait until tomorrow and yet I still somehow forgot the day before when I was at the same place. (I have also become that person who forgets the diaper/snack bag while in store, and has to open a box to placate a screaming toddler. But that’s another post.) When we ate out all the time, I was buying groceries once a week, maybe two. But add in a baby and home-cooking and diapers and running out of milk and bananas like a Real Grownup, and next thing you know I’m my local chain’s favorite customer EVER. I think I singlehandedly am supporting a couple of Harrises and Teeters, just from my receipts.
I couldn’t figure out WHY I was always having to buy things, when I have so much canned stuff in my pantry, so this weekend in a free moment I did a little inventory. I seem to have a lot of canned tomatoes, kidney beans, and refried beans. I also have too many cans of tuna, lots of salsa (due to my husband thinking a jar goes bad five minutes after you open it) and pasta that is older than my daughter. Huh. We’re going to be traveling a bit in the next month or so, so I figure there is no better time to try and finish some stuff up. I’m thinking about putting myself up to a challenge: how many meals can I construct SOLELY from my pantry and freezer and what’s in the fridge and not rotten? Will I be left to eat salsa-pasta-tuna-surprise? God, I hope not. But I do see a lot of bean salad in my immediate future. If you have any suggestions about what I can make with several packets of miso soup mix, a package of breakfast Stollen (sp?) bread and entirely too many julienned carrots, please advise. I am listening.
In other news, I am reminded entirely too often these days that I am closing in on 40 and therefore getting Older. If not already old. Most recently, there was my babysitter not knowing what a Wookie was (hello? Star Wars?) and then, most recently, when some shirts I ordered for my daughter arrived in the mail. Sasha really likes robots, and I’d found these cute shirts with little stick robots and a red heart on them. Cute, right? I opened the bag, pull out the shirt, and….something’s wrong with it. It’s white cotton, but, like, all faded and weird, and it looks like it’s ben put through a wringer, kind of thin in places, with runs in it. “Crap,” I said. “It’s defective.” My sitter looked at me, then at the shirt. “Actually,” she said carefully, “it’s supposed to look like that.” I was not sure. “It is?” She nodded. “You know, it’s a look. Distressed. It’s hip right now.” Since then, I have seen said distressed look other places, and now I feel like a total moron. It’s like in high school when my mom pointed out my jeans had holes in the knees and offered to put a patch on them. “Are you kidding?” I said, yanking them away from here. “Don’t! They’re perfect this way!” Oh, these crazy kids. Frankly, I don’t want my kid in a shirt that looks similar to something The Situation would wear to a dance club, even if it IS cool right now. If that makes me old—and I think it does—so be it. Oh, well.
Okay, time to go stand in front of the pantry and get creative. I have some veggie burgers that aren’t expired (yet) some bamboo shoots and a pack of cheese grits. Time to make the magic happen….