...Walk right in it's around the back/ Just a half a mile from the railroad track/ You can get anything you want...
Mike asked: What's for dinner?
Beef. It's what's for dinner.
At least according to the meat marketing agency, and I don't mean an escort service.
According to me? Dunno.
I spend a significant portion of time thinking of ways to weasel out of cooking. There are several establishments that I'm happy to pay to feed me. I've taught the children to cook. Leftovers are a blessing. I am Queen of Cans: beans, cream of mushroom soup, and chicken broth are foundations of crazy hasty meals. My freezer is stocked with fishsticks and chicken tenders. My pantry contains an assortment of noodles and tomato sauces in jars. Eggs, scrambled, fried, or hard boiled. Can of chicken noodle soup and crackers. Cheese rolled up in a tortilla. Tuna salad on toast. Chunk of meat in the crockpot with dry onion dip mix and cream of celery soup. This sort of cooking-without-cooking is probably going to cost the children thousands in therapy.
The problem is, as chief caretaker of growing humans, I ought to be cooking two or three times a day. However, I only LIKE to cook two or three times a YEAR.
I don't have a huge interest in food. Left to myself, I'll eat hummus and olives and endive and apples. In no particular order, and sometimes all together. I'm fond salmon and avacado and bleu cheese, and there is a salad I enjoy- I forget what it's called- with romaine, pears, bleu cheese and candied walnuts, but I only have it when I see it listed on a plastic-coated menu.
I bake brownies once in awhile, have been known to make melon ball fruit dish, and I'll mix drinks for any occasion.
But if you're asking me to dinner, I'll have sashimi, seaweed salad and edamame, thanks.
(Alice's Restaurant; Arlo Guthrie)