This is the drill. I suddenly become aware of the time. Usually 30-40 minutes past the time I had intended to be on my way home from the gym. I shut off my computer screen, rush a student out of my office, and toss a few books that I intend to review at home. (And dutifully will return to my office the following morning still tucked in my bag.) I keep my head down as I speed walk to my car, so as to avoid eye contact with anyone that could derail my singular quest to make a delicious meal.
As I dart through side streets to get to my abode, I concoct recipes. I think through what we have in the house, briefly reflect on the food pyramid or food circle or food plate. I burst through the front door with visions of vegetable-based protein sources and delicious sauces. I settle on roasted pumpkin risotto with slivered almonds. I get to work.
Dave calls breathlessly from his race to pick up the kids with short updates on their days. If the lights at 32nd and Hiawatha cooperate, I have about 12 minutes to finish the meal before the kids shoot through the door and start poking in the kitchen. A bit of movie magic somehow happens and dinner is on the table, the kids hands are mostly washed, and we are about to eat.
Upon seeing the meal, Spencer just asks if he can have broccoli instead. Nora demands pasta. I want to bang my head on the table, but am wary that my red wine may spill. When I get gruff and muffle something like, "I worked really hard on this meal and this is what is for dinner," Spence asks to be excused. Nora starts wailing.
Just another dinner at the Snyders.