There was a period in Odhner history when my own ambitions around supper were elevated. Around three o'clock I would pull out the cookbooks and leaf through pages in search of that night's offering. Moosewood was a favorite, partly because of Molly's artwork and also because you could look up a recipe from a particular ingredient. If I had lots of fresh broccoli, I started with that. I still have the book, and there are pages glued together or half missing because of frequent spills. I explored handmade calzones, zucchini crusts, and a lemon cheesecake that became a standard for birthdays.

Laurel's Kitchen also fueled my menus, and of course Betty Crocker if only because my mother used it when I was a child. She was not in any way a gourmet. If there was canned cream of mushroom soup poured on the string beans it was a good day. 

There were other stretches when the process of deciding what to make hobbled me. For every possibility there were two negating factors. 

"We just had pizza."

"One of the kids hates spaghetti."

"I'm out of eggs."

I was stuck in Decidingland, and by five there was less energy left for actually pulling out pots. I was miserable. 

On a whim I made a schedule. I took our seven most acceptable entrees and plunked them on a day of the week. No more mulling. All the energy went into actual cutting. I forget how long it lasted as a practice but I do recall a sense of relief.

This is what we are having.

Complaints and boycotts still fluttered through but it only made life more interesting, not untenable. 

There are times when a chunk of my mental acuity is sucked into dissatisfaction with my circumstances. 

"Ben should not be having meltdowns."

"College tuition debt is horrendous."

"This winter is relentless."

But there have been other occasions when I am able to skip that part and land squarely in the path of acceptance.

This is what is happening. 

It turns out that the omission leaves more stamina for actually living with it.