It's up to me to make dinner.
There's only one problem -- dinner is fried chicken.
Fried chicken is the Man Beast's domain, not mine. And it seems, the children know this.
When they asked when Man Beast was coming home (they usually just call him Dad) and I told them he was going to be late they asked me, "Who's gonna cook dinner?"
Who's going to cook dinner? "I'm going to cook dinner! I am Mom after all. What are my blog readers going to think when I tell them this", I asked them. "I'll tell you what they're going to think -- they are going to think that I never feed you. And they actually have proof!"
It's time I 'fess up to you all right now.
I cannot cook fried chicken. And potatoes. Of any kind. But I swear to you -- I do cook for the kiddos and the Man Beast. Obviously the Man Beast is well fed. His mama fed him well and when we got married 11 years ago, she entrusted his nourishment to me. I promise I do feed my family. I really, really do!
I make a moral decision and decide that the kiddos cannot possibly wait until 10 o'clock to eat. They never eat that late...well, this week at least. No, this is something I have got to do myself.
Well, I did it. Cooked to perfection. Or so I thought.
As The Boy was putting his plate in the sink he asked, "Did you season the chicken at all?"
Obviously, not enough...