Again, another Something New that deals with food.
After my triumph of pulling a real meal out of what I had on hand, I tried it again. I made fried chicken and, drumroll please, gravy from scratch.
I know, lame.
But for some reason, making gravy from scratch is a mystery to me. Years ago, before I was even married or had kids, I even brought it up to my shrink. I was lamenting I couldn't be a good parent because I couldn't make gravy. Why gravy was so important, I have no idea. I'm not even a huge gravy fan, but maybe it represented that I could provide for my kids' nourishment or something.
Anyway, my shrink looked at me and said "Gravy comes in jars, you know."
So I got out my red and white checked cookbook, and faced my fears and made gravy. And it was good.
Of course, The Big One and Little One didn't eat it, but The Neurotic Dog and I did.
I know this represents something on a different level, but I just felt like I accomplished something.
Yes, I know. I need a life.