There are days when I get tired of thinking of food. I’m hungry, but nothing sounds good.
Well, nothing that I should allow myself to eat, anyway.
Those are the days that I wish those shakes weren’t so sugar-laden and sugar-crash prone (not to mention what it’d do to my glucose levels) and that I could just crack open a meal in a can.
I hate thinking up meals. Especially when the meals must satisfy five different people’s idea of taste. And I have to, or the kiddos will find ways to stuff themselves with junk food. That essentially leaves me with about eight meals I can make that everyone can agree on aside from me — and I shouldn’t eat most of them.
I wouldn’t mind cooking for everyone else if I had that meal in a can for myself. But it is the balancing of tastes and nutritional restrictions that drives me up a forking wall most evenings.
Plus, who doesn’t like carry-out pad thai? If I was strict about my diet, I couldn’t eat that.
I hate cooking.