On (not) eating at home

One of the things about moving out was that I really, really thought I’d be eating at home more often. I was looking forward to learning how to cook and all that jazz. Except it hasn’t seemed to happen that was. Given that evenings are my socializing time, I find that I’m not home for dinner all that often. To take just the last week as an example:

– Saturday lunch was Zyng in the West Island while Marc and I did errands. Saturday dinner was a friend’s birthday at Dragon Rouge.
– Sunday breakfast was Belle Province with Marc’s family. Sunday dinner I got home quite late from my mom’s place and had, I think, leftover soup.
– Monday I was home for dinner.
– Tuesday my aunt treated Marc and I to Baton Rouge.
– Wednesday was order-in pizza at the D&D game.
– Thursday (yesterday) breakfast was Eggspectations with my mom. Thursday dinner I got home late from work and had, I think, leftover soup.
– Friday (today) Marc and I are double-dating with some friends at Reuben’s for dinner.
– Saturday (tomorrow) we’re going up to my dad’s country place for ribs.

So out of eight days, I’ve had one proper dinner at home and two more that were rushed, “what do we have that I can reheat in less than three minutes?” affairs. I’ve eaten out six times (seven if you count the pizza).

I’m not really complaining. I mean, I like getting together with people and eating out (though my waistline isn’t particularly happy). But it makes meal planning kinda difficult. Also groceries. I mean, how much do you buy if you don’t know whether you’re going to be home for two dinners or five a week? Sigh. Ah, the challenges of living on one’s own.

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