I also inherited the grocery shopping. Not something I particularly enjoy, but when planning meals it tends to be the cook who needs to shop. In our case it HAS to be. The Saint is a terrible grocery shopper. I can send a list, but if I don’t give him original packaging to match? Useless.
[Here is just ONE example. You know the potato casserole recipe that is a heart attack waiting to happen, but is a great pot-luck dish? The one with hash browns, butter, cheese, sour cream and canned soup? OK, let’s just say there was a funeral at our church and my Altar and Rosary Circle was assigned potatoes. And let’s say the aforementioned casserole was what I decided to make. And let’s just say I was busy,
Me: "I need you to go to the store for ONE thing so I can cook for this funeral."
Saint: "Sure, what for?"
Me: "Hash browns; they’re for a casserole. I need the cubed kind."
Me: "You know, little squares?"
Saint: "Where, by the milk?" (I shit you not)
Me: SIGH "No, in the freezer section, right across from the ice cream"
Saint: "Go it."
Fifteen minutes later…
Saint: (Eyes shinning, so pleased with himself) "Here you go."
Me: (opening grocery bag and finding hash brown PATTIES) WTF?
Saint: "What, they’re square?"]
Anywhoo, I digress. For the last ten or so years the girls have done the dishes. As they got older they got really good at it. The bone of contention however was always pots. Much jockeying for position as to whose turn it was. As in, “I call pots” whenever there was one or none. Actual physical harm occasionally resulted from disagreements over whose turn it was to do pots. (I was never harmed of course as this is the portion of the evening where I sit at the dinner table and pour another glass of wine.)
Now that Precious Youngest is Precious ONLY she has declared it onerous that she has to clear and clean for three all.by.her.self. WAAHH! She is developing ingenious methods for trying to get out of this chore. My personal favorite? Sliding out of her chair, flipping over on her back, scooting out of the kitchen into the dinning room and backstroking across the dinning room floor.
Funny? Hell yes. Working out for her? Not so much.