How Leftovers Are Born

I cannot even begin to express the level of pride that I had for myself by 9:00 this morning, because CAN YOU SAY HOMEMADE SPAGHETTI SAUCE SIMMERING IN THE CROCKPOT?  There was even a bay leaf in that pot, people.

Plus, my kitchen was clean and both my washer and dryer were running at full speed.

Sit down, Martha Stewart.  I’ve got this!

And seriously, my boys might know what it means to have a Number Five With a Dr. Pepper from the nearest drive-thru for dinner, but they shall never know that spaghetti sauce can be bought in a jar.  I’d like to say it’s the good Italian woman inside of me, but listen:  The only Italian woman inside of me is the one who doesn’t break her fingernail off when she opens a box of donuts in the morning for her kids’ breakfast.

And then, after that crockpot cooked away all day, filling the house with the aroma of something that kicked The Olive Garden to the curb and then walked all over it, I boiled the spaghetti.

1350748328209_5414617The faux Italian woman inside of me never knows if she should put half the box… or the full box… or two entire boxes… of spaghetti noodles into the pot on the stove.  And because she doesn’t want to do it TWICE, in the event that LISTEN, GLADYS!  HAS THE GOVERNMENT PUT RATIONS ON NOODLES NOW?, she boils just a handful more.

Which is always enough to feed my boys and seventy-three junior high kids who just happen to drop by at dinner time.

Happy Monday, y’all.

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