Dinner, Shminner

Dinner.

Seems simple, doesn't it? Have you ever tried to move a boiling-over pot of penne pasta off one burner onto another while strapped into a Baby Bjorn?

Don't.

(no, nobody got hurt... except maybe the stove).

I've tried to maintain a certain level of consistency with dinner since Punkin was born 4 weeks ago. I admit it: it's a joke. Dinner's an hour late every night and at times, consists of things I barely consider food. Take, for example, the Beef Taco Bake I made a few nights ago.

I found a recipe for this stupid thing in a book full of "fast and easy" recipes someone gave me when I got married. It consisted of ground beef, salsa, a can of tomato soup, shredded cheddar cheese, and (the real low point) cut up flour tortillas. I should have known by the instructions this wasn't going to go well. I browned the beef, threw all of the ingredients together, and looked at the sad mess sitting in the baking dish before I put it in the oven. It didn't even look like food. It certainly didn't smell like it.

Determined to go the distance, I baked it and took it out of the oven. When my husband came in the kitchen, he supportively said, "I bet it tastes good." Then he took a bite of it and couldn't even fake a smile.

A few seconds later, my 4 year old daughter came in the room, sniffed, and said, "Mom, I think the skunk from last summer is in the house."

Ten minutes later we were all eating chicken soup.