I used to be like you. I went to the farmer’s market and made that night’s dinner out of whatever looked the freshest. I bought things I’d never seen before and then pored over recipes figuring out how to prepare them. I served the kids the same thing the adults ate, tough cookies if they didn’t like it.
Now with just me and a picky nine-year-old, things are different. I still have the best of intentions because I shop on the weekends, when I’m feeling hopeful and energetic. I buy kale and berries and beets and arugula. And lemons, always lemons.
Then Monday inevitably rolls around. I don’t sleep well, so I generally drag through the work day, do the afternoon kid circuit – things like camp pickup, guitar lessons, a visit with my stepdaughter, quick trip to Target for the black shirt needed for Thursday’s performance – and finally step into my house in zombie-like fashion. I generally provide a home-cooked dinner, but I’m here to tell you it rarely includes field greens or anything involving the word “artisan.”
As a result, my produce bin has turned into a veritable petri dish, the tangible reconciling of my hopes and my reality. Weekend Me vs. Monday Me. So far, Weekend Me is taking a beating. She’s a fighter, though, so she’s going to keep on buying produce every week until Monday Me finally gets with the program.