One of the perks of spending an afternoon at Costco (besides sampling all of the yummy offerings at the end of the aisles) was knowing that dinner would be easy to accomplish since I always, without fail, would bring home one of their delicious rotisserie chickens. The price was right too hence their name, Cost-co, I guess. In those carefree B.P. (Before Pescatarianism) days, I would load my car and sit the rotisserie chicken in its black-bottomed carry case, on newspaper (in case of spills which thankfully never happened) on the floor of the front passenger seat. As I blissfully drive home, the delicious smell of the golden perfectly browned chicken would waft up to where I had my eyes trained on the road home, thinking of the simple sides to complete a satisfying meal. Always, there is a green salad for dinner which I could pull together with the giant cello rectangle of spring mix, cherry tomatoes and sliced almonds, all procured on my shopping run. I could then add stuffing mix or cous cous, each of which only takes five to ten minutes to prepare, and a side of cranberry or applesauce, both of which I keep on hand. I have fond memories of pulling into my garage and letting out my dog who would smell the chicken as soon as I opened the trunk to begin unloading. His jumping, stumpy tail wagging, and sniffing was a happy dance that was a joy to behold. Then once I brought the chicken inside and transferred it to roasting pan to keep it warm in my oven (I do not own a microwave which is a story in itself), there were always little pieces of meat and that golden brown skin stuck in the black tray which I would give my cockapoo in his food bowl as an appetizer in anticipation of the meal to come. I’d even talk to my dog, saying things like, “guess what I have? (as if he would answer) chicken!” Or “who’s going to have chicken for dinner? You are!” My dog definitely understands the word ‘chicken’ (which I now have to spell when I’m in his presence so not to get him unduly excited.) Once dinner time came, my kids in those carefree B.P. days, would ask for the legs and thighs, and maybe some breast meat for seconds (yes, they would have seconds!) all of us smiling, dipping the meat in barbecue sauce, and generally enjoying our meal together while giving our dog pieces of skin and meat while his tag wagged off his fluffy butt. Alas, we are now in A.P. times, the years of pescatarianism (aka Anno Pescataria), a dreary era during which I make runs to Costco and return alone in the front seat of the car, without the scent of rotisseried goodness to make my mouth water, coming home to a dog who watches me unload the car staring at me in bewilderment, probably thinking doggy thoughts like, “Did she forget to bring a piece of heaven home?” or “Did I do something bad and she’s punishing me?”. I do have a confession to make. One day this past summer when the kids were all occupied and not coming home for dinner, I went to Costco to do my shopping and as I was headed to the checkout area, I did a 180 u-turn in sort of a half run to the rotisserie counter where the chickens were being unloaded out of the roaster to a throng of waiting, salivating customers. I grabbed a warm, container emanating the golden brown goodness within, and jogged back to the checkout area. Once I got home, I was greeted by an ecstatic cockapoo, practically peeing himself with excitement, and we spent the next few days, me and the cockapoo, enjoying chicken lunches and dinners, looking at each other and smiling, which dogs can do, seeming to say, we’ll always have ‘chicken’.

In the years B.P. (no, not BritishPetroleum and you know why I didn’t abbreviate Pre-Pescatarianism) I would go to the local supermarket deli counter, and have conversations with the deli workers while they sliced up turkey and chicken breast, ham and roast beef, and yes, cheddar cheese to go on top. Sometimes they would give me a slice to taste because I looked hungry or perhaps I looked fetching – more likely the former. Now that we are living in the A.P. era (no, not Advanced Placement but Anno Pescataria because I have the same abbreviation dilemma with Post-Pescatarianism) I bypass the deli counter. The workers would watch me walk by their station and I used to wave, once saying, “my kids became vegetarians” (not entirely accurate but easier to explain) but now there is an icy chill that’s not just from the refrigeration case and I avert my eyes downward longing for an occasional slice of roast beef as I walk on by. Good cheddar cheese is available prepackaged from Applegate Farms or at Trader Joe’s so I don’t bother going to the counter because it is usually crowded and not worth waiting for one item. Actually, my pescatarian kids, by effectively severing my relationship with the deli counter workers may actually have saved me hours of deli counter wait time! I should be thanking them for causing me to live in the A.P. – a modern and more productive era in which I peck out this blog!

Last year, before my two youngest children declared themselves, pescatarians, I had hardly heard of this grain let alone that it was a grain and that it was pronounced ‘keen – wa’ and not ‘kwin-noah’ (leading some to believe that it was what sustained the Ark passengers). Ironically, 2013 was the International Year of Quinoa (thank you, Wikapedia), so it seems fitting that I’ve continuously had one or two bags of the stuff in my pantry beginning with that banner year for a grain. What is it this year – let me guess – lentils? Anyhow, I’ve noticed that ‘thousands’ appropriately play into associations with what nutritionists call a ‘super food’ (conjuring up the image in my mind of a broad-kernaled caped being striding into my kitchen declaring, ‘have no fear, Mom of the Millenium, quinoa is here to replace your neat-centered comfort foods with healthy main dishes that look like sand-covered mixed vegetables” but I digress). Quinoa is grown 12,000 feet above sea level in the Andes (thank you ‘truRoots’). Wow! That’s higher than Denver, CO where I distinctly remember my pescatarian daughter developing altitude sickness yet she can inhale bowls of this stuff without an ill effect. Ironically, she thrives on a grain that she couldn’t cultivate herself without vomiting! Speaking of cultivation, quinoa was first cultivated 3,000 – 4,000 years ago in the Andes (which happens to be my daughter’s favorite mint – coincidence?) yet it’s consumption did not increase dramatically until this Millenium. Seems to me, it’s my destiny to spend thousands making thousands of pounds of quinoa-centric dinners containing thousands upon thousands of particles of this smaller-than-rice staple.

So if you’ve been following along, (if not, please do – there are not many posts to catch up on) I was blogging about my clandestine visits to the Golden Arches so I could get ‘Happy’ in a non-Farrel Williams sort of way (btw – enjoying him on The Voice although I am for Team Adam). Midday meat-madness only happens midweek when the Pescatarians are at school. The weekends are a whole different story. I’ve been filling up our social calendar with dinner dates Friday and Saturday evenings, and opting for steak houses whenever I’ve been asked to ‘pick a place’

I never heard of a person being called a ‘meataholic’ before or a group called ‘Meataholics Anonymous’ but the situation I have been placed into by my pescatarian offspring has turned me into one. I just may become the founding mother of a previously nonexistent organization.  There must be other parents out there who have found their food choices rejected, scorned or otherwise ignored by their children. I now confess to an addiction to meat borne of deprivation I have inflicted upon myself! And why do I say my addiction is self-inflicted? Because during the week I am too busy running my kids to activities and juggling all of the worthy causes that I cannot say ‘no’ to that I opt for one meal on the table each evening to make my life in one small way, ‘simpler’. That one meal, as a Mom of this millennium who has pescatarian offspring, must be sans meat otherwise I must make an additional main course to satisfy my cravings. So what happens when I am not eating with my children? That’s where the addiction comes into play, and play I do, especially when I’m driving back to the house after a shopping run, not having had time to eat lunch, and I spy the Golden Arches (and since I do not live in the San Francisco Bay Area I am no talking about the Golden Gate Bridge!) When I see the shiny red plastic sign with raised yellow ‘Drive Thru’ beckon to me I make a sharp right and follow the yellow lines to my ‘connection’, the speaker into which I request, ‘one Hamburger Happy Meal please, an orange drink and a toy for a boy’ and then proceed to the next window, my ‘dealer’ whom I pay and then proceed to the next window where the ‘drop’ is made and extra ketchup is requested. I then park at the far end of the lot to apply the ketchup and virtually inhale the hamburger which might as well be truffles on artisan toast points judging from how ‘Happy’ this aptly named ‘Meal’ makes me. You may ask, ‘why only a regular hamburger, why not a Big Mac or a Whopper from Burger King?” My reply is, “I confess that sometimes I do succumb to either of those decadences but 9 times out of 10 it’s a Happy Meal because it’s something I can conceal. The calories are less than a sandwich and I can stay the same size without arrousing suspicion.” As for the toys for a boy, I leave them in the backseat of my car for my son to find on our way to the bus stop where he pockets them and carries them away to middle school, where they are probably shared, defaced, and ultimately destroyed, never to be seen again. And this is just what happens at lunch!