Welcome

Well, I deleted this blog a few months ago for various reasons that all seemed perfectly legitimate at the time. Since then, I've become bored and in need of an outlet, so I've decided those reasons are less compelling than my personal needs. And what is a blog if not a place where selfishness is the order of the day? It's megalomania in its most socially acceptable form.

In all seriousness, I've missed the old girl. I've missed the thrill of reading comments and finding out that people actually read it. I've missed the emails I get from my mom after she reads an entry where I am particularly whiny. So, we're back. Me and blog. Together again.

In honor of our return, I will be posting some of my favorite entries from Blog 1.0 (may she rest in peace). Enjoy!
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Salmon (the fish, not the color)
Sunday, January 21

I have a small confession: I have a mild panic attack once every day. It always occurs at the same time, around 6:30 pm when Husband calls to tell me he has begun his 30 minute drive home from work. Panic generally creeps up my spine in slow waves as I realize its time to start cooking dinner.

The problem, I think, is that I was never interested in cooking before living on my own. My mom would try to get me to help in the kitchen, but I never cared much about the food preparation, so I would set the table while she cooked. I learned a few things, like how to make guacamole, but they never stayed with me because I really didn't care.

When I lived in my first apartment during college, I started cooking a few random things. I think my staple was heating up a can of soup, but I could brown ground beef to make tacos and cook pasta and tomato sauce. After college, I lived with a roommate and started dating the man who would become Husband, so I had to cook more for my very survival. However, once I realized Boyfriend had serious Husband potential, I felt a foreshadowing of The Panic. If I was ever going to be Wife, especially sometime in the near future, I had to learn to cook, post haste. My mom gave me a few new tips and taught me how to cook my favorite home food, Southwest Chicken Pasta (bowtie pasta with garlic chicken and sauteed onions and bell peppers..... mmmmm.....). I started feeling good about my skills. I could make a mean turkey sandwich. I now shopped for groceries regularly. I KNEW things, like how to tell when avacados are ripe and which brand of lunch meat was cheapest and best tasting. I was so ready for this whole Homemaker thing.

[As an aside, I don't want to make it sound like I was COMPLETELY unprepared for taking care of Husband; that would be doing a disservice to my mom. I am a cleaning fiend. I can clean anything, and my neuroses (namely obsessive-compulsive disorder and the drive for perfection) require that my living space be pristine. Mom, you gave me skills that have proven invaluable. Like how to clean a toilet.]

[Also, its not like Husband demands that I do all the cooking. He makes amazing cookies. He can take care of himself. Its just that I grew up with a cooking mom, so I feel an in-bred need to be the main chef in the family.]

In short, nothing could have prepared me for the pressure and the pain of cooking dinner every night. The first three days we were home from our honeymoon were cake. Tacos? Check! Southwest Chicken Pasta? Check! Spaghetti with Meat Sauce? Check! But then... it seemed Husband was thrilled at the idea of eating the same three dishes in a never-ending cycle. Strange, no? I mean, I really could eat the same thing every week because then I would only make what I already have mastered, and thus, no stress! But unfortunately, that wasn't an option.

Luckily, I soon discovered the two most powerful weapons in the arsenal of Newlywed Wives. One, the ladies at my church made me a miraculous cookbook as a wedding present. I spent many a night trying to figure out how to make their dishes, and even calling them to ask questions. Two, my mother must keep her cell phone on her person at all times because she always answers when I call around 6:30 pm with a stupid cooking question that most 5 year olds could probably answer. Like, why does this sauce look weird? What is the difference between mincing and dicing? How do I know when the chicken is ready? In short, new recipes brought The Panic on with amazing rapidity, and my mom's calm advice helped keep it at bay.

Still, practice as I may, six months of wedded bliss have not yet banished The Panic from my kitchen. I still freak out about what to make for dinner (how long ago did I make tacos?!) and if I will be able to make it well.

Two days ago, I was fretting, per usual, about the tedium of making "the usual" yet again. I needed something new. I was tired of making the same 8 things in rotation. [Yeah, I said 8! I have expanded my knowledge! You should come over some time!] Over the phone, I mentioned this to my mom, who immediately armed me with How to Make Chili (which I feel like I should have known already... didn't they go over that in Girl Scouts once?) and How to Cook Salmon. Now, the salmon really got my blood pumping. FISH! Our diet had been a steady supply of beef and chicken, so the fish would be a nice change. I drove to the grocery store with a song in my heart. I greeted the Wal Mart lady warmly, navigated the crowd with ease, and thoroughly enjoyed collecting what I needed for dinner. Normally, I depise grocery shopping, but I was on a mission to keep variety and spice in my (dining) life.

Naturally, the good mood dissipated as soon as I arrived home and the impending doom of actually carrying out my glorious plan immediately brought on The Panic. I worried the entire hour I waited for the call that Husband was on his way home. I set everything out in nervous preparation. I tried to watch FRIENDS to distract myself. Finally, I could wait no longer, and after one more call to my mom to make sure I was doing everything right, I commenced.

Ok, so this is the most melodramatic way to communicate that I made salmon for dinner last night, but guess what? I DID IT!!! I DID IT!!! I made salmon and it was edible! Husband ate it! It was incredibly validating. I also made broccoli and rice, so it almost felt like a real meal. I wore my Wife badge with pride. I conquered the kitchen. I showed it who is boss. I cooked fish and Husband LIKED it.

This is not to say that my experience with The Panic is over. No, no. There is no escaping The Panic. I have a feeling I will live with it my entire life, or at least until I have children and don't have time to worry about cooking anymore. Kids are good like that, they take up lots of time and sometimes will only eat pancakes with jelly (true story... my cousin Erik wouldn't eat anything else for years). Until then, I will resign myself to the irrational fear that one day Husband will come home and see that once again we are eating tacos and threaten to divorce me. TACOS? AGAIN? IF I HAVE TO EAT ONE MORE TACO..... I will, rather, take a wicked delight in the fact that occasionally, The Panic can be beaten back in the face of a yummy, fishy treat.