Sunday used to be the day I'd sit down with good
intentions and a blank notebook and try to figure out what we were eating for
the next seven days. It sounds simple. It never was. By the time I'd accounted
for the fact that my youngest won't eat anything with visible onions, my
husband works late on Thursdays, we usually have some kind of activity on
Wednesday that means dinner needs to be fast, and I've already made pasta twice
this week — the planning session had turned into a twenty-minute negotiation
with myself that still ended with me buying things I didn't use and forgetting
things I needed.














