Matt roasted a chicken on Sunday and, wonderfully, the children only ate half of it because of the potluck, so I cut the rest of it up and did it with onion, garlic, little sweet peppers, thyme, mushrooms and the rest of his gravy and then puff pastry not top. There wasn't any left. Not even a tiny speck. It's becoming so discouraging how much the children eat. There wasn't any breakfast left either--apples layered with brown sugar, butter and uncooked oatmeal and then baked for a while at 350 until bubbling and golden brown. I only made one pan. Stupid stupid. No growing child can be expected to eat only two bowls of baked apple and oatmeal (I'm sure this has already been invented, doesn't it have a name? Three layers. Apple, sugar, butter, oatmeal in that order?) and survive past ten in the morning. And because I guess I just don't have it together, I only have one tray of these for breakfast this morning.
And because I'm short sighted and foolish I've fallen into the terrible habit of heating milk for the children's tea and coffee in the morning. And me not a morning person. Matt came in shouting and waving his arms on Monday (Monday is his day for breakfast) at the request that he heat milk. "What have you done!?" He cried.
"I'm sorry," I said, "I just think the coffee is better with the milk heated."
"Not for a seven year old!"
He's right, of course, but so am I. So, on that note, off I go to the kitchen because the piano teacher will be here in an hour and everyone will be starving to death.
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