Flavour fatiuge

So I plan our meals weekly. Usually the same ones. Every week.
Not because I lack imagination — but because routine is comforting and I like knowing what’s coming.

That said, I do use my planner to shuffle the meals around each day, which turns dinner into a sort of funky surprise.

This is, tragically, the most excitement I experience as an adult.

Lately, I’ve also started tracking meals properly because I’m attempting to undo the damage caused by The Great Christmas Scoff. (Too much cheese and beer)

Here’s the problem: the mystery of what meal comes next is thrilling… but also safe. There are only seven options. Familiar options. Controlled options.

So I’ve decided to do something radical. Brave. Possibly irresponsible.

“I’m changing the family meals”, I announced like the local town crier to the family household.

To most people, this is a normal Tuesday activity.
To me — a creature of habit who thrives on ORGANISATION PLEASE — this is emotional labour.

Which brings us to the point of this post.

I need to change the meals… but I am far too tired to do it.

The last time I attempted this without my planner, I produced a curry with a suspicious pink-orange sauce that tasted roughly as spicy as hell itself. No one asked for seconds. Or forgiveness.

So yes. Wish me luck.
I’ll need it.

After much deliberation, the wife decided to do it, It is safer this way…