I have been gone for a week when I go to the store on Thursday so I kinda stock up.  I buy pork, chicken, cheese, a couple of different kinds of lettuce, carrots, celery, humus, lemons, yogurt, english muffins and wine.  

Nothing like a full larder to make me feel competent and comforted.

Breezing toward the weekend, we have a doctored-up pizza Thursday night and spiced-up pork chops Friday. Saturday morning, I drop the frozen chicken breasts on the counter for a spell and then  shove them in the refrigerator just before we go and help Sig’s mother pack; she’s moving to a new apartment in May. 

Later, as I look at the wrapped un-cooked chicken, Sig offers to go out and pick something up. Yay, I say — he comes back with grilled chicken meals from KFC. I pick all of the meat off the bones.

The next day, we leave right after lunch for more packing.  It is nearly 6:00 when we come back home. I check my e-mail, finish reading the paper, talk to a friend — then, “Hey, are you cooking something tonight — or should I just eat cereal?”  

Chicken breasts, I think. After I saute the filets and serve them up with a pilaf and a salad, it occurs to me that de-frosted meat has waaay too much control.