The Wife's Sunday Dinner Strikes Again
Roast pork, crackling, a mountain of roast potatoes. I'd give up more than food for this one. Rosie and Dexter would like it noted that I forgot their crackling.
Sunday dinner hit again. Roast pork, crispy crackling, a proper mountain of roast potatoes, green beans and broccoli to make it look vaguely sensible. I’ve said before that if I die on a Monday, at least I won’t have missed one of these.
Probably not the finest choice for weight loss. I don’t care.
This isn’t the same as mindlessly working through a packet of something because it’s sitting there. It’s a meal I genuinely look forward to all week, cooked by the wife, eaten slowly and properly enjoyed. Mounjaro’s taken a lot of the mindless eating out of my life. It hasn’t touched this one, and I wouldn’t want it to.
I’d honestly give up more than food for this one. Forget every other meal in the week — I’d go without pretty much everything except breathing, if that’s what it took to keep Sunday dinner on the table.
One casualty: Rosie and Dexter were supposed to get a share of the crackling. The wife always makes sure they’re well sorted for meat, but the crackling’s the bit that normally goes on the dinner table rather than in their bowls. I knew there was some going spare, I knew they were expecting it, and I ate the evidence anyway. Next Sunday I’ll try putting their bit aside before I start on mine, though I’m not promising anything once it’s actually in front of me.