“What’s for Dinner?”

It’s truly an every day question that’s aggravating. 

It’s worse in the summer months when the thought of turning on the oven after being out in the sun is kinda’ pathetic.

“We ordering something?” Kathy asked.

“I guess.”

“A sub? Hot dogs? Pizza?”

“I’d do Chinese,” I finally said, knowing full well she didn’t want Chinese.

“Order yours,” she said. “Me and Sam will get something. What time we eating?”

“‘Ten Minute’ is what they’ll say when I call,” I said.

I ordered all my favorites, and got an extra egg roll for some reason.

Ended the question for a day, anyway, but ‘what’s for dinner?’ will rear its ugly head again tomorrow.

One of the best things we did was assign a couple of meals to a couple of nights.

Wednesday is pasta for me. It was pizza night for everyone else.

On Sunday, I make pasta.

So, we’re down to five nights.

“How about breakfast for dinner?” Is tossed my way once in a while, and suddenly I’m a short order cook.

When I lived with my Dad on the road, dinner was never a question.

We had steak, followed by pasta, followed by steak, followed by pasta…

…days of the week didn’t matter, and he was such a great cook that the pasta sauce changed to whatever we could think of.

But, the days of extravagant dinners are mostly behind us, as there are nights when Kathy eats a bowl of cereal and doesn’t want anything.

Which is fine with me.

“Ten minute.”

That’s the only time I need.