I am tired. Always tired, forever tired, bone-tired, sick and tired. But I am not giving up. I am NOT. I am starving hungry, hungry, hungry, hungry. It’s not just that I always want to eat (which I do), or that I just want my old semi-glam life back (which I kind of do), the one where I wrote about food for relatively important publications so every chef and restaurant owner who could drag me to their kitchen bent themselves over backwards to feed me fantastic meals.
It’s that now my hunger is no longer just the quest to titillate my five superficial senses. Now, it’s personal. Now, it’s visceral. In the middle of an America of people who have lost any sense of what a good meal is, I have a toddler. And in the middle of having a toddler, I am working a fulltime job that has nothing to do with food. And in the middle of that fulltime job and that toddler, there is no money whatsoever left to order out. And so, at the very time I should be making the best, most honest food of my life, for the most important reason ever, I am staring down a can of Chef Boyardee Beefaroni, looking at my watch, stifling a yawn and trying not to blink first.
So…Hot, Cheap & Easy…because in the last three years of struggling with Holy Moly I Have a Baby to Feed Syndrome, I have learned a few tricks. My kid is the best eater in his daycare. I haven’t got fat (despite no more time for yoga or the gym). And as he grows and I mature, the journalist in me can’t help but scream to tell everyone what I’ve learned, how I do it and in the process, make the blog be my conscience to learn more and do it better.