Me and Hozier

Eats shoots & leaves

If there’s one thing I have learned since assembling and expelling two human beings from my body, it is the power of planning. Weekly planning. I’m not talking about fertility. I’ve no business controlling your ovaries or your libido — jeesh. I’m referring to a weekly meal planner — WMP (weapons of mass production). Without planning ahead, family mealtimes can feel like an AGM for Irish Water.

My WMP happens every Sunday evening. I choose the recipes I’d like my boys to tango with during the week, and figure out where to source all the ingredients.

Snoresome? Not when you’re maxing Hozier on full volume and caressing a bottle of Tempranillo like an award-winning body builder. This is one of my favourite domesticated chores. I own it.

Planning might include dribbling over Jamie Oliver, arming myself with bloggers like Green Kitchen Stories, or consulting the backlog of LIFE Magazine recipes from the kitchen drawer.

I’ll beatifically ponder over a range of breakfasts to store in the fridge, ones that need little night-before prep: paleo flapjacks; chia puds; kickass harissa for scrambled eggs on toast — anything that won’t impose on my brain cells in the early morning.

These will last for seven celestial days. There’ll always be a platoon of pimped-up snacks loitering in the fridge too, for when fangs start to sharpen. Or bribes need fulfilling.

Then I make the tedious shopping list. Tempranillo and I make a good team. We make Mary Poppins look lame. The result? My family ends up both physically and emotionally nourished. I don’t freak out at mealtimes any more. My adrenal glands are back on speaking terms with me, you see.