I sure was having a leisurely afternoon on a Wednesday. Hubby had a late meeting. Plenty of leftovers in the refrigerator, I was off the hook for cooking dinner. At five o’clock, I thought, “Hey, there won’t be any lines at the car wash, I’m taking my latest InStyle magazine with me. I would have guilt-free fashion time while I wait.

Around 6:30, a salad sounded pretty good. Maybe I could make a salad for everyone. I sent a text to Hubby and our youngest.

Hey, anybody want a salad? That’s all I’m making tonight.

 Nobody replied for at least fifteen minutes. I am well into eating my healthy dinner, happy I didn’t have to chop up more lettuce, cabbage, carrots, radishes, tomato…trying to replicate Hubby’s kitchen sink healthy salad.

Ping. Ping. Ping. My phone cries out.

I’m good thanks, replies Hubby.

 No thanks, replies my youngest son.

Wait a minute, does this mean you are not making enchiladas?

 Crap! I totally forgot. I could make them tomorrow or scramble for ingredients tonight, but it won’t be ready until 8:30.

 8:30 is fine.

It kind of wasn’t so fine for me. I was still eating my “dinner” and contemplating a chick flick. I was looking pretty scraggily, having only showered off after a hike. FREEDOM! I was scraggily at the carwash, but I thought carrying around an InStyle magazine would infer: I did have a sense of fashion know-how; I was merely taking a day off.

“I don’t get big mom demands very often. I can rally up some dinner,” I thought to myself. Off I went to two stores to get all the right ingredients, hoping the entire way I would not see anyone I knew.

Who was I kidding? None of my friends shop at 7 pm. Hardly anyone was in the store.  Hmm. Note to self. Both stores had everything I needed, narrowly. Trader Joes was down to its last two bottles of enchilada sauce. I was home in no time, out of public sight.

Final two. Whew!

I cranked mom tunes while I prepped the Emergency Enchiladas.  “You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, “ I sang out loud while I shredded the pre-roasted chicken. I lined up two kinds of cheese, dutch goat cheese and goat cheddar and the organic tortillas. Ready.

“…without your kisses… I’ll be needing stitches…” I sang while I rolled up stuffed tortillas when in walks my sweaty son, fresh from the gym.

“Can I pour on the sauce? I like a really wet enchilada.”

“Sure.” I thought I always poured the sauce pretty evenly, but whatever.

He picked over the already picked over roast chicken, finding fragments to make one more enchilada for the pan—he loves enchiladas that much.

“Cause Baby you’re a firework…” Katy Perry blasted out from our speakers.

“It’s kind of fun to listen to old pop. I like Katy Perry, do you?” my son asked.

“Yep. I do.” (We agreed on the same music! This has not happened since he was five! This was so worth the effort!)

In about ten minutes, the enchiladas were ready for the oven. Thirty minutes later, they were ready for a VERY HUNGRY teen.

Crisis averted.

Mom was very happy, only slightly disappointed she couldn’t resist nibbling on the cheese, ruining her fat-free, healthy dinner.

It won’t be like this in a week, when he’s gone.