So I went a little crazy and decided to join a food co-op. This is different from the “went a little crazy and scrubbed the cwap out of our bathroom causing protests from the Half Pint in his Womb Room” and the “went a little crazy and thought I can exercise every morning before seven am and continue to be a cheerful (or at least non-crabby) person.”

Yes, that does make me crazy.

But this is a different kind of crazy. This is a crazy that should be good for me and my family, a crazy that will help us build community, learn to cook, and share yummy healthy meals. Some folks might call it a supper club; some might call is a “make ahead meals”; some might call it making a whole lot of yummy food and exchanging it with others for their whole lot of yummy food and having an aversion to knives and pots and pans and cleaning for a month until the exchange happens again.

See, what happened was I hung out with my neighbor. It snowed, and she actually had free time in her schedule (a rarity). She told me about the food co-op she participates in with five others families and how they make meals to be frozen, exchange them, and basically have dinner for the whole month. “It’s revolutionized my life!” Now, my friend is a Connector, so she naturally said, “You should join!” and because it’s so revolutionary, I had to become a part of it (I’m a Maven, so I need to know about all revolutionariness going on so as to let others know). She said they were looking for another family or two to join: would we be interested?

I said ‘yes.’ She told the co-op co-ordinator. Who said, ‘maybe’: they weren’t sure if they wanted to add to the meal making. So I lingered in maybeland for over a month, until this Monday when I got an email asking us to join in the co-op goodness. And because I’m hormonal and crazy, I jumped in: why crazy? Because the exchange is this Monday. Why is that a problem? Because I don’t cook.

My husband would say I cook. My parents would say I cook. But it’s really more of a novelty than a staple in my day. For Hubby to come home to a meal ready and waiting is similar to him coming home and me saying that it was a *great* day: not a frequent thing. Usually I cook dinner a) when it’s four o’clock and I’m so bored that even Oprah can’t entertain me with her Secret or 2) JJ woke up early from a nap and we need to do *something* until the Death Hour passes and Hubby gets home.

But for some reason I think that this weekend I can successfully make six batches of Chicken Pesto Chili, freeze them, incubate a fetus, watch a Turbo Tot, and maintain a cheerful demeanor.

Is everyone laughing?

We’ve had to do some prep work to get ready. One: purchasing pesto from Costco and freezing it in ice cube trays so that folks can plop it in their warmed up bowl of goodness. Two: purchasing ingredients to make a ton of chili. Three: eating all the “what in the world is this? don’t ask” items out of the freezer so we’ll have room to a) freeze chili and 2) receive meals o’ plenty, but also maintaining items needed for the chili: Hubby - “Are you going to put chicken in this stirfry?” CrazyLady: “NO! Must save for chili!”. “Mmmm: pesto.” “NO! For CHILI!” That’s some serious planning: how *do* I manage, I wonder.

So yes: this weekend I will cook. And it will be good, I hope. If not, I’ll bake some cookies as a sort of peace offering, hoping I won’t have to wear a big NAC (not a cook) emblazoned on myself like Hester, having been exiled from the food co-op.

Oh, the shame, the shame. . .

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