Punt

Things haven't gone exactly according to plan this week. When *do* they? My failure to give The H clear instructions on just how many chicken breasts to slather in barbecue sauce resulted in 10+ saucy chicks being grilled on Sunday evening. This threw me. I'm a planner. A list maker. I had a MEAL plan, dang it, and four thousand pounds of barbecue-flavored chicken were not on it!

Relax, you're probably saying. It's.just.chicken. I know that. My mother-in-law (who was there for dinner, along with her husband and my sister) laughed it off and said, "Oh, well. Punt."

What? I don't do sports analogies (heck, I don't do *sports*). She further explained, "If things don't go the way you planned, change plans--punt." Good advice.

So, today we punted. The H got home from work late, and I didn't feel like busting my rear in the kitchen just to whip up the chilled chicken-and-rice salad I'd planned on. Especially because the chicken was now "sweet and smoky with just the right amount of kick" (thanks, Trader Joe's) and I didn't have time to chop any of the veggies today.

The remaining chicken became BBQ chicken salads: a (delightful) combination of organic spring mix, organic baby spinach, saucy breasts, cheddar shreds, gorgonzola crumbles (yep, two kinds of cheese!), shredded carrot, and Roma tomato. The H said he'd eat it again.

I hope that doesn't mean he's going to sauce the entire package of chicken again next time he's on grill duty.