J.K. Coi

So, Kristina of the doesn’t-do-dinner actually wanted to do something nice for her husband this weekend, so she…brace yourself…made dinner.

It was to be French Onion Soup and Roasted Chicken with wild rice and carrots. (sounds good, huh)

It started with the cutting of countless onions on Sunday morning for the French Onion Soup, which necessitated the need to remain indoors and cry endlessly (whether from the onions, or the loneliness, no one will ever know), and miss out on outside play time with Derek that beautiful morning. Then came the seasoning of the chicken, which was torture in itself, thanks to my absolutely reasonable aversion to touching dead meat.

Finally, as Derek was coming in for lunch, I actually made lunch as well (if you call Kraft dinner making lunch…let’s not go too far into domesticity here).

At about 2:30, the chicken went into the oven, and the soup was starting to bubble nicely.

Finally, after Derek and Carlo enjoyed a full day of fun in the uncharacteristically warm October sunshine, playing hockey in the driveway, kicking the ball in the yard, blowing bubbles into the clear blue sky, etc. etc. etc. I finished inside, slaving over the stove to make sure they enjoyed a wonderful Sunday evening dinner at home. I carefully laid the table with good dishes, opened a nice bottle of wine (coincidentally, a good homemade wine that I slaved over making with Dad…ha ha), and served up the best meal we’ve had at home in weeks (by best, I mean the most labour intensive, because even I will admit Carlo cooks up some mean pasta).

What does my thankful, appreciative family say to my exhaustive efforts? Derek: “where’s the ketchup?”

Carlo: “this chicken will be great for left over sandwiches this week.”

Thus, Kristina of the doesn’t-do-dinner is born again.

(DISCLAIMER: This message is being provided in the spirit of making fun of myself, and for no improper purpose, and most especially not to criticize my husband or son’s appreciation of my “skills”.)