When I was growing up, my mother managed to ride herd on six kids and all their various activities and get dinner on the table as my father walked through the door. Six days a week for decades. And on the seventh day? She rested. Not on Sunday, but on Saturday.
Take out wasn't an option, due to both budgetary and geographical constraints. We lived in the country, far from pizza parlors or fast food. (Pizzeria pizza was an enormous treat when I was young.) When the kids were very young, Saturday meals were simple, pasta or soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. When we got older, my mother would announce that scrounge was on the menu. Which meant you were on your own with what could be scrounged up in the house, free to be as elaborate or as simple as you wished, as long as you cleaned up!
The Boy wandered up to my office the other afternoon to wonder what was for dinner. Math Man was away at a conference, so it was just the two of us. "I was thinking of scrounge." "I'll go forage, then."
Urban foraging may be all the rage in Berkeley, but suburban foraging is alive and well in my house at least!
Photo is of pizza dough ready to rise. Something I've been baking at home since I was 10.