The Dinner Of My People

I cleaned house all day.

And by I cleaned house all day, I mean that the housekeeper I cannot really afford came over bright and early this morning.  I did laundry and vacuumed rugs and folded laundry and sorted junk mail and switched loads of laundry and cleaned bathroom mirrors, while she scrubbed my floors and scoured my bathrooms and resurrected my kitchen.  Right now, I am seriously considering booking a room at the Holiday Inn for our family, because I’d like to cherish this moment of THE ENTIRE HOUSE IS CLEAN for more than seventeen minutes.

Because seriously…

the entire house is clean.

All of it.

And the laundry is nearly done… BY ME… because apparently my laundry fairy died in the avalanche of dirty clothes and won’t be flying to our house any longer.

And then…

… after keeping Thing 2 out of the sparkling clean house all afternoon by taking him to one of his best buddy’s birthday parties, I came home…

… and there were people here who wanted dinner.

Now, granted, they were MY people, and it’s probably my job to feed them, but REALLY?  Do they have to eat every single evening?  Since I failed to cook dinner last night, as I gave a shout out to VERY LATE LUNCH!!  IT WAS A LUNCH / DINNER COMBO!!  WE CAN NOW ALL WAIT UNTIL MORNING TO EAT AGAIN!, I figured that I probably had to uncover something for them all to eat tonight.

c8450423609702679f73b354ea79a7ae7281f3fe5898bb1cb323709a3b3fd2b814900469_1142496895804160_7299033581086495156_nSo, I did what every mother who has a sparkling clean house and doesn’t want to mess up her kitchen would do:

I bought a box of real, live Tuna Helper.

It cost me $1.75, plus the cost of a can of all-white, albacore tuna fish, that was caught without any dolphins being injured.

I can’t even tell you how impressed my menfolk were.  I told Hubs, “This is the dinner of my childhood.  It’s comfort food.”

Hubs reminded me that this comfort food of my youth was probably MADE FROM SCRATCH by my mother, and she probably baked it in the oven with cheese and love and garden-fresh vegetables and called it Tuna Casserole.

Yes.

Yes, it probably shook down exactly like that in 1979.  I mean, seriously.  I’m sure my mom knew how to make the Alfredo sauce from scratch, and she probably bought noodles and simmered them with cream and butter and broccoli she picked from our garden, but not me.  I bought a box, that was ALL INCLUSIVE.  I dumped and poured.  I measured out milk and butter, and then I sprinkled the MSG-laden packet of twenty-six different herbs and spices and chemicals over the whole thing, let it simmer for a while, and BOOM!  THERE’S YOUR SUPPER, IN ONE PAN, AND MY KITCHEN IS STILL CLEAN.

Bless.

Also?  Thing 2 cannot stand tuna fish.  He gags every single time I open a can for sandwiches.  He runs and hides and dry heaves and let’s me know that he enjoyed being my son for a while, but he’s expiring now, because the stench of canned tuna is wafting through the air.

So there was that part of dinner that went swimmingly tonight.

You’re welcome for the pun.

So one-fourth of our family had a cheese sandwich for dinner, because I didn’t want to find him, exactly like I found the laundry fairy today.

Happy Monday, y’all.  Happy Monday.

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