I started cooking (seriously) when I was fourteen. I started writing (seriously - sort of) when I was twelve. It took several decades to put the two together. My grandson made me do it. He liked to help in the kitchen when he was three. I decided to write him a cookbook.
Garrison, my grandson, is five now. He'll be adamant that he's five and a half. I'm still writing the chapter where he's four. (He'd be upset if he knew that so I'd better write fast.) Something stopped me. It was something that stopped a lot of things. It was the economy.
A weekly grocery bill for two people and two dogs (even though one was on prescription food) shouldn't come to nearly a hundred dollars and not include lobster - a lot of lobster. I decided to make notes on frugal shopping and frugal cooking. That morphed into the beginnings of a cookbook and a weekly grocery tab of around fifby bucks if I shopped alone.
Now the household consists of one person, one dog, and no income. I spend my days looking for work, scouring grocery store sales that don't burn much gas, and entertaining myself playing with cheap food.
This week russet potatoes and large eggs were on sale, a sale nobody should miss. Last night eggs made the dinner. Tonight a potato will be stuffed with anything that sounds good.
There's almost a whole day before dinner comes around again.
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