Domesticated

I don't mind cleaning my house. I really don't. When I get tired and overwhelmed and the laundry piles up, I won't refrain from complaining about it, but it's a decent kind of work. I can choose a task and on most days follow it through, check it off my list and have a visual reminder that I actually accomplished something on any given day. Of course I mean that it's a visual reminder on the days my kids don't rip through the room rendering it unpleasant and dirty once more. On those days that is just a reminder that I have kids. (As if I don't get enough of those kinds of reminders already.)

What I am not so great at is the cooking, baking and general food preparation. I don't hate it. But it's an easy way to mess up a newly cleaned kitchen (or a kitchen I hope to have clean soon) and I don't love it enough to make time to really settle into making dinner or whatever. I have a few meal exceptions. Within the confines of my tiny menu I have found that perhaps I could be a decent cook, should my circumstances ever align with the stars and grant me a housekeeper, lots of great ingredients, etc., etc.

Today I made quiche. Quiche is in my repertoire and I make a decent one. I therefore send out this piece of kitchen advice to the masses: wait to add the milk or cream until after you have cracked all the eggs; else a small shell may inadvertently drop into the mixing bowl, never to be found again, except by someone's teeth at dinner time. Hopefully your own.