Cooking School Journal: Week Three

I had a full plate this week.

Tuesday was the first meeting of my new Daisy girl scout troop for Lilly. I’ve volunteered to be the leader. A lot of work?  Maybe. But, I never want my middle kid to tell Oprah that I was a lousy mom.

Wednesday I had Lucy’s Brownie Troop here at the house for a “cooking class” to earn their ‘Make it, Eat it’ (hold all jokes) badge for their brownie vests.

Thursday is the Kindergarten Carnival where I am in charge of the tattoo booth.

It sounds trivial, but trust me, in suburbia this is all a huge deal.desperate-housewivesjpg

Luckily, on Friday I get to blow off some steam with a rousing game of Bunko with the other Stepford wives.  I will sip a glass of domestic mineral water and try and stave off the D. T. ‘s  while I gossip about the goings-on at Stepford Elementary.

So, with all of that ahead of me, and last week’s chicken debacle still leaving a nasty taste in my mouth, I didn’t want to go to school on Monday.

After serving mom, the girls and the doggies dinner, I stood in the kitchen detailing how the Home-Schooler has completely sabotaged my entire culinary career, while repeating my new, new mantra: “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go.”

Joe came home just then. “Go! It’s late!”

It was only 5:49. Class didn’t start until six.

I poured myself a glass of wine.

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“I don’t really feel like going”, I said, gnawing on Hannah’s hamburger.

“Why?” Mom asked in her best therapist voice.

“It’s pastry. I hate baking.”

“Why?” Therapy-ish voice again.

“There are two types of cooks. People who like to bake, and everyone else.” I replied, gulping down the last 2 oz. of wine.

“Oh. Just go. Show the home-schooler who’s the boss,” Mom replied, therapist voice now glaringly absent.

5:54 pm.

I poured myself a second glass.

“Blah, blah, don’t want to go, blah, blah, blah.”

Gulped down the wine.

Began collecting my things: two ramekins, tart pan, knife set, text book, notebook…

“Blah, blah, waste of time, blah, blah, too tired, blah, blah, blah.”

I wolfed down the burger, popped an Altoid, grabbed my knife case and hit the road.

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