In my infinite wisdom, I decided it would be a great idea to eat healthier and exercise to get back in shape. (After devouring several chocolate bunnies, of course.)
No matter that every weekday is a rush to get to work, pick up the boys at the end of the day and get home before we all collapse in an epic hunger-induced meltdown. I will prepare homemade meals. They are better for you.
But what to cook? My culinary track record is less than stellar. (Given my tendency to blow things up.)
I know! I will use the crockpot to create chicken tacos. I will prepare the delicious gourmet dinner in the evening. I will pile it into the crockpot the next morning and it will be ready when we arrive home. (Also, I have it on good advice that it is very difficult to set crockpots on fire.)
This translated into setting a packet of taco seasoning and jar of salsa in front of the crockpot, which I’d pulled down from the cupboard where it typically lives – right next to the fire extinguisher. I left Jon a note on the fridge, “Dump seasoning, salsa and chicken in pot at noon.”
Only I must have accidentally turned the thing on when I plugged it in. So *that’s* what the burning smell was before bed…
Good news. Crockpots are hard to set on fire. Confirmed.
We had amazing chicken soft tacos for dinner last night – shredded lettuce, shredded cheese, shredded chicken, and let’s face it, shredded tortillas for the boys. And *I* made them! (I obviously felt the need to proudly share this accomplishment on Twitter.)
Two people quickly responded:
- “Well there’s a tweet I never expected to see from you. Well done.”
- “I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
So I feel the need to clarify. *I* did make them. Or assemble them anyway. But I did stab at the slightly overcooked chicken (apparently 6 hours on high is too much) with a fork to shred it. I also assembled taco-like meal plates. I only burned myself. And nothing caught on fire. So really, this is a rousing success. Let’s focus on my initiative here, people.
After the muppets went to bed, I resisted the urge to crawl under my own covers and curl into a little ball of fantastical dreams. Instead I pulled on a t-shirt and running pants. If I’m going to run the Disney half-marathon in September, I might as well put the treadmill to its intended use, rather than its more recent status as toddler jungle gym.
Headphones in, iPad up and music on. Fifteen minutes later I was just starting to get into a good groove.
And then I fell off the treadmill.
Sadly, I am not making this up. Jon sent me a note from work, “Glad you’re ok. Sounds like a blog post!” (Don’t worry, only my pride was a little wounded. But tell me this is not fate’s way of flinging its own winecone.)
So I did what any health expert would advise. I listened to what my body was telling me.
And I had a drink.