And so it begins.

It’s Saturday, and I’m hungry. This is the day when, exhausted from a week of working, cooking, parenting, and studying, my family eats out for four straight meals—breakfast today through a late breakfast tomorrow. Then the guilt (and poverty) sets in, and I spend Sunday planning the week’s meals and going grocery shopping.

I’m starting this blog—late to the game as I am—because I love writing and reading about food, but also because I need to light a fire under my lazy ass every week, to force me to cook for my family in a way that is healthy, delicious, fast, cheap, and as easy to clean up as possible. This is no small demand that I place on myself, but it must be so.

My plan: review a local restaurant from our weekend exploits on Saturday; divulge my shopping list, meal plans, and final tally on Sunday; blog my culinary successes and failures 2 or 3 nights a week; and somehow find time within all of that to write a dissertation, raise a 5-year-old, be a good wife and homeowner, and nurture the hell out of my sixth-grade students. Oh, and at some point this year I want to start exercising. Cuz I have all this extra time and energy. Not.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more.