I often have lofty goals when it comes to my dinners. Around noon, I'll start to plan the elaborate meal I'm going to cook myself, complete with fresh bread and a glass of wine. (Hey, I deserve the best of the best.) I'll spend my afternoons daydreaming about flaky salmon, moist chicken, or cheesy potatoes.
However, by the time the evening comes around, it's a whole different story. At 7 p.m., when I finally drag my dejected body through the door, my dinner dreams wither away faster than you can say, "You're no Ina Garten."
The end result is always the same: I am way too tired to head to the grocery store. Instead, I gloomily look through my fridge, my freezer, and my pantry in order to whip up something using the hodge-podge of ingredients I have on hand. (Sound familiar?)
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