She cooks and cleans like that’s what matters most.
Ok, that’s what I do. When the world is well and sunny, my house looks like a cess pool of toys, clothes, dishes, et al. We eat restaurant food and spaghetti.
When the kids are ill and Leo’s ill and I can’t fix it, my house looks like a magazine spread. And I cook. I don’t really like to cook otherwise.
I think it has something to do with my genetic code, when I can’t do anything, do something. The more mindless it is, the better.
So I made dozens of drop biscuits. Cheesy garlic drop biscuits and honey drop biscuits and chocolate raspberry balsamic cake, which is life changing. It’s moisty and airy and rich and sweet with just a hint of gooey.
Then I ate five biscuits in one breath. You read me right, five!
I may have control issues. And seventeen loads of dishes left to do.
But wait, it gets worse.
After I ate five biscuits in about 7.3 seconds, I chased it with a big ol’ hunk of cake.
Then I immediately regretted it. And had indigestion.
Today the house seems harder to keep clean and I don’t even care to make peanut butter sandwiches for lunch. Simeon is fever-less (thank the Lord!) and Leo is playing piano, so he must be alright. There’s a sippy cup of juice dripping onto my couch cushion, Ophelia and Simeon are throwing a basketball across the livingroom, there’s a pile of dishes on the counter and my bed is sure not made.
All is as it should be. It’s good be right again.