on eating.

Since I moved out of my parent's house, I have come to realize that my expectations with regards to dinner have decreased somewhat dramatically. About a year ago, upon arriving home I would inspect the hot dinner waiting for me with a practiced eye, never once imagining the effort it took to prepare said meal. My mind would wander to the meals of the last week, and if the said meal was similar in any way, shape or form I would make my distaste known:

"Chicken again? Jesus I am sick of chicken."
"Red meat? You know eating this more than twice a week will kill you."
"Soup? Christ it's 30C outside. I'm going to sweat to death."

Blasphemy and contemplation of mortal ends aside, I never realized how ungrateful I was until I started cooking for myself. My standards have dropped precipitously. On the odd occasion that I do cook (probably every 2nd or 3rd day), my options become severely limited to the few dishes I am confident in making. Grilled chicken. Broiled salmon. Chicken stir fry. Diced potatoes. Salads. Hamburgers. Omelets. I might make something on Monday night and continue to eat it in various guises for the rest of the week. I.e grilled chicken on Monday night becomes stir fry on Tuesday and chicken Caesar salad on Wednesday. Ah the creative mind of the single male.

Before I used to judge my mom's cooking on taste and originality; now if I haven't collapsed dead 10 minutes after eating one of my concoctions I consider my meal a complete and resounding success. Should it have even a modicum of taste I will beam ear to ear, triumphant in my mastery of food.

Recipes anyone?