Since only the big pack of chicken tits were on sale, it was variations on the theme of chicken. Which is lucky, since that is pretty much the extent of my repetoire, unless you count pasta and stuff that comes out of a box.
Tonight: pan-friend chicken with spices, baked sweet potato and green beans! (which i managed not to burn or catch on fire.)
I prepped apples for a curry dish with couscous, and yes, more chicken. And curried chicken salad.
My shelf in the fridge looks so full. Of real food.
And while I cooked, I did some iChat and played some tunage. But Ernie the Fat Pug did not find my grooving to Humpty Dance amusing.
Later, while mauling, er... delicately enjoying the sumptuous meal I fixed, I was reading an article in WSJ that made me kind of annoyed. Well, so annoyed that I couldn't finish the article. About parents who take their infants (not children, infants in diapers whose ages are still measured in months rather than years) to see psychiatrists. As if they would be able to head off depression or anxiety at that age. The only anxiety I see here is parental. I mean, these babies don't understand basic language or relationships, I don't think they are going to really benefit from psychiatry. Besides, these parents haven't had enough time to truly screw the kids up...
(the slate article linked here)
on iTunes: Digital Underground - "Humpty Dance"
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