It had been a lazy, slow, uninspired weekend and one of the results was that I did not write a menu, did not buy all the fixins for making any kind of planned meals. Yes, there was the usual steaks and pork chops in the freezer, the proverbial bag of taters in the cupboard, we weren't gonna starve, but without a battle plan, the idea of making dinner gets increasingly anxiety provoking as I am driving home.
So on Monday, it had been another cold, windy, wet and dark day and I needed something warm, filling and comforting and I decided I wanted meatloaf and mashed potatoes with gravy. So I swung by the local Safeway to grab the few things I did not have. Primarily the meat and the gravy mix. Now, I am normally not the kind of person to use premade anything, but meatloaf is a tricky thing. There ain't no drippins, nothing to use to make the tasty base of gravy so I tend grab a package of Lipton beef and onion soup and use that with some beef broth to make gravy.
But, typical for any last minute plan and very typical for my dysfunctional relationship with the local Safeway... the place on the shelf that holds the Lipton soup was empty, zip, blank, nada... shit. Right next, just two steps down I see shiny jars of "GRAVY". I glare at them, I can already hear Master's criticism of many of my attempts at homemade gravy. And the seductive, (lazy) voice in my head is whispering... "Somebody made this gravy and thought it was sooo good they bottled it and are trying to sell it. How bad can it be?" I should have not listened to that little voice.
The meatloaf was good, the mashed taters were awesome... the gravy was horrid. Master bitched me out... as usual. I get stubborn. I remember all the times my homemade gravy got analyzed and found lacking (conveniently 'forgetting' the dozens of times he mmm'd and snarfed up the good gravy). I pout and whine that he never likes my gravy anyway so I might as well just buy the crappy kind. (This is totally inaccurate. I have a bad habit of forgetting compliments and carefully archiving away each and every criticism.) He got really mad. And I got snarky.
We spent the evening giving each other the piss eye. All over gravy.
In the end he made me come into the kitchen and "helped" me clean up. (Translate help into micromanage and pinch and spank and harp and bitch). I remember one time grabbing two clean plastic butter tubs and trying to stuff them under my bra. I mean I was needing some protective equipment. It didn't help much. But by the time we were done, we were both laughing. I mean it was just gravy after all.
The Road to Recovery is Slow
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