Betty Crocker I am not.
It occurs to me, my 30th birthday was months ago, but somehow inventing my own casserole recipe—and it actually being palatable—seems to slam shut the hollow core door to my twenties. The banana walnut pancakes I whipped up this morning? Insurance that the door was locked, nailed shut, a big ol’ dresser pushed up to it.
Last night I was feeling lazy with regard to dinner. The fridge was full, but everything needed all sorts of chopping and preparation. And, well, no. Somehow I found my way to a cookbook [you know, those bound-paper thingies with lists and pictures.
If you’re still stumped, they’re usually collecting dust in the cupboard since their shelving shortly after the wedding wrapping paper was removed]. So there was the white sauce recipe, all simple and quick. And no chopping. But, wait. What’s this? Betty says I can add parmesan cheese? Jackpot.
Butter, flour, milk and cheese later, I’m feeling like Top Chef. Minus the ego.
Add the left over roast [yep. I made a roast earlier in the week. In the crockpot, but still.], then the peas and carrots, some cooked egg noodles. We have a casserole, folks.
Not Red Plate Day special, but I’ll take what meager accomplishments I can get, these days.