About one hundred. Including myself, I serve about one hundred meals per week. I am absolutely counting Jasper, as he consumes as much as I do ,and makes four times the mess. In fact he should count twice, but for sciences sake I will stick to the facts. Not every meal is planned, or remotely elaborate. There is a hefty amount of peanut butter and jelly or kale chips and popcorn being served. But I thaw a lot of meat, and chop a lot of vegetables, and slice up so much fruit. I bake tons of bread, pour over many cookbooks, and go to the market far too often. It is exhausting, and trying, and honestly many times very defeating. I mean lets consider how many times a week or even a day, someone complains about the food I have prepared. And I should mention, I do not have a dish washer. So lets tally up the number of hours resulting in dish hands too. Let’s also not forget the number of meals I eat standing up, the number of times I demand people to sit down, the number of hollers it takes to get these people to eat the food I have prepared. And no, I am not even going to consider the amount the two cats, one dog, three pigs, one bunny, fifteen hens and rooster eat. Or the three bird feeders. I simply cannot go there, my brain will explode.
I only spent this last ten minutes, and huge chunk of a paragraph complaining about the feeding the masses to tell you one thing: This fine spring evening, they brought me supper. Be it wild, be it uncooked, be it a touch difficult to prepare, it arrived in bucketfuls with grins and dirty fingernails and an aura of pride so powerful it knocked me down.
Morels and fiddleheads. One only needs a hunk of good bread to go alongside and you have a handful of satisfied souls.
All is right in the kitchen once again.