Lately we've been exclusively eating frittata on Saturday evenings.
Eighteen or so eggs, a dollop of full fat cream, chives or sauteed onion or something, a golden mound of some kind of cheese, sometimes some sausage, all whipped together and plunked into a pan and into the oven at 350 for a while--until its golden and puffy and a knife comes out clean.
And a massive loaf of bread sliced up and lathered with butter. And a big salad.
Doesn't it sound all golden and lovely?
But here's the thing. Tonight There Were No Leftovers.
Let me repeat....There Were No Leftovers. The wretched children ate every single scrap of food and then cast their eyes about for whatever else there might be.
Which just, well, it just made me angry. Leftovers are such an integral and necessary part of a well functional household. If you don't have leftovers, well, where are you? Stuck making a dinner every single night, that's where.
Its a crying, as they say, shame. Two nights ago I made gorgeous mounds of strawberry shortcake. Two cups flour, one tablespoon baking powder, pinch salt, two-thirds cup lard, one cup milk, and, just to be really special, a spattering of cinnamon and a Whole Third Cup of Real Sugar, mushed together onto a baking pan at 350 for a while till a knife came out clean. And then a whole glorious bowl of strawberries with sugar until they were running with juice and sweetness. Only three of the six children were there so I figured there would clearly be a chance to nip in well after dark and just finish it up. What? You don't bake with an eye towards that last closing of the fridge whenever everyone else isn't around?
Anyway, There weren't Any Leftovers. None. Three children, one vat of strawberry shortcake, No Leftovers. It was almost enough to make me give up. Really, what's the point. I might as well just crack open a can of spam and climb under my bed.