Monday: Day off work, I made cube steaks in the afternoon piled high with onions. Dinner that night was spaghetti and meatballs.
Tuesday: Worked, ate a left over cheddah’ bagel in the morning, ended up bringing left over chicken and twice baked potatoes for lunch. Before leaving work, Mum used the spaghetti from the night before to make Smokehouse (only the best bloody pasta dish on the planet). Hit the grocery and bought the makings for a Strazone, something I’d not eaten in a while. They came out delicious.
Wednesday: Another day off work. Heated up yet another serving of chicken and twice baked potatoes for lunch. No take out for me. Saw the boy and made sausage for him for lunch and then reheated the strazones for dinner.
Thursday: Finally made use of the feta I picked up at some point last week. Took it with pretzels and a granola bar for an energising snack at work. Strawberries could cut the bitter salty taste, I think and mellow it out. Regardless, ended up finishing the last of the chicken and potatoes (thankfully). By the time I finished work, mum brought a plate of alfredo to me with garlic bread.
Hate to admit it, but I’m pretty sure tomorrow I’m going to take a bowl of spaghetti with a meatball (or two) for lunch tomorrow. At which point, I think I’m ready for some kind of meat. But not with potatoes, or pasta. I want rice. But I don’t want to order takeout tomorrow night. I want to cook.