I spent a goodly potion of the weekend in bed suffering from an allergic reaction. Danny started his new job at the school, which has necessitated all types of backing and filling, since we're doing the whole last check-first check pay gap dance. (He'll still fly part-time.) Two of our rescue strays have decided they just don't want to be backyard dogs any longer and are making nuisances of themselves (Anyone want a free dog? Not joking. They're small and cute...and desperately want to be house dogs.) An overly-celebrating driver took out our mailbox...and narrowly missed adding his car to our living room furnishings. Speaking of cars, we're down to one car, which Danny is using, because the other car needs not one, but two tires replaced, so I'm stuck at home. All of which means I'm still trying to feed everyone on the same week's worth of food I bought two weeks ago.
It never rains, but it pours.
I'm sure, positive, convinced that this sort of thing happened to families during the war. People got sick; there was massive job restructuring; tires needed replaced and were unobtainable for a time; ...which meant wartime housewives had to come up with meals from nothing until they could get themselves and their ration coupons to the stores.
All of which is a long way of saying that, right now, the chickens are saving our bacon. For emergency food times, there is nothing better than a small flock of chickens.
Egg fried rice. Omelets. Eggy in a basket. Fried egg sandwiches. Egg salad sandwiches. Scrambled eggs. French toast. Egg and rice soup. And the list goes on. Eggs are the perfect, "We're out of food" food.
Things will be better by Friday, which is good. We should all be heartily sick of eggs by then.