Husbandly One is working late tonight, which means I was on my own for dinner. This usually means that I force myself to finish off whatever leftovers and grocery mistakes are left in my freezer and fridge, rather than foist them on him.
As such, I had a salad of questionable baby spinach, the leftover frozen chicken wings from Super Bowl (so screaming ass hot that even I have a hard time choking them back), and washed it all down with a glass of red wine from the bottle we opened ten days ago. Okay, it was vinegar. But I drank it, dammit.
The evil, chuckling part of me actually thinks it could be fun to save these culinary gems for Husbandly One. I have never made a secret of the fact that he cooked almost every meal we ate for five years, but since we got back from vacation in January, I have cooked every single night. (Well, except for the night of my car accident, give me a break!) I have NO idea why I was suddenly moved to start cooking for him, but I know he really appreciates it. And even when my recipes don't quite work out, he praises me to the skies. I think he's just afraid I'll snap out of this and he'll have to go back to being chief cook and bottle washer. I'm just thinking it might be funny to serve him shit that I KNOW is below par, just to watch him find ways to praise me for it. Heh heh.
But no, I would never do that. I want to cook for him, do this one small thing to make his life simpler, give him well balanced meals that nourish his body and soul. So it looks like I will continue to save "Leftover Night" for myself.
Now if you'll excuse me, there's two spoonfuls of cottage cheese calling my name.