I made sausage gravy and biscuits for brunch (I had fudge for breakfast around 9 and then made the real food about 11) and then after brunch went to throw a chicken in the crockpot for dinner. See, last time we made crockpot chicken this totally worked. But on Christmas the chicken had a little paper packet of innards stuffed inside its little ribcage and since it was frozen solid I couldn't get the little packet out no matter what I did. Finally I told Scott that if he ever wanted to eat again he had to make it be fixed. Then I went into the bedroom, shut the door, and sobbed into my pillow for half an hour while he made it be fixed. Then I stuck the chicken in the crockpot with some spices and told Scott to do dishes while I surfed the internet.
You'd think that would convince me I have the best husband ever, but NO. I've spent most of this week grumpy because I always have to ASK him to help with dishes/take out the trash/give me a backrub/do whatever my little heart desires. I kid you not. Despite having read a million times that men are not mind-readers and don't realize you need help unless you ask...I think I am the special-est snowflake and should have a telepathic husband.
I really need to get more sleep.
including the groceries we bought at the end of November and the $11.37 of groceries we bought using a Kroger gift card we got as a Christmas present. And I still have a TON of food in my kitchen. I was going to list it all but then it got too long of a list. Maybe I'll do a photo post on January 1.
Obviously, it would be possible for him to just go his entire life without ever eating pizza again, but he's Italian and pizza is good and it was just a major disappointment for him that every brand of pizza he tried had the same result. So I promised that one day I'd make him homemade pizza and we'd see what happened. I felt like this was worth a shot for 2 reasons: 1) I had this primal (irrational) instinct that anything I lovingly prepared with my own two hands would naturally be more healthsome and good than something mass-produced by a stranger. 2) Teresa once broke out in hives after eating a particular brand of takeout pizza (even though she'd eaten homemade pizza and other brands of pizza before; we didn't usually get that brand but that day we happened to have a coupon) and we found out later that that brand tends to cause reactions in people who are allergic to shellfish. (Mom's been keeping her away from shellfish ever since as a precaution. Not that she'd touch shellfish anyway.) So I know it's possible to have an allergic reaction to pizza due to some random trace ingredient.
Lo and behold, I was right. I think I'll have to feed him pizza a couple more times before I feel totally safe, but I'm cautiously optimistic.
Also, I just guaranteed that I'm going to have to make pizza from scratch on a regular basis until I die. No deciding it's too much work and calling for delivery for me. Oops.
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