There. I said it.

Morning starts with coffee and good intentions. Lunch arrives with speed and mild chaos. Then late afternoon creeps in. Hunger rises. Energy drops. The question appears again. Whays for supper.

This thought lands on my brain every single day. Not once a week. Not on special days. Daily. Relentless. Predictable. Exhausting.

People think supper equals cooking. Supper equals planning. Supper equals decision making. Supper equals budget math. Supper equals checking the fridge. Supper equals guilt. Supper equals health goals. Supper equals complaints from small humans. Supper equals someone saying they are not in the mood for chicken again.

I enjoy food. I enjoy eating. I enjoy feeding people I love. The thinking part drains me.

The fridge stares back like a silent judge. Half a pepper. Three eggs. A sauce jar with one spoon left. A pack of meat still frozen. Bread. Always bread.

Pinterest promises magic. Instagram promises ease. Recipe blogs promise thirty minute meals. None of those people live in my kitchen. None of those people hear the same requests. None of those people clean the plates.

I work all day. I build businesses. I solve problems. I make decisions with budgets and people and outcomes attached. Then I stand in my kitchen and struggle with rice or pasta.

The question hits during traffic. During meetings. During school pickup. During homework. During that moment when silence would help.

Everyone has an opinion. Everyone has a preference. No one wants to choose.

I notice the pattern. The meals repeat. The stress repeats. The frustration repeats. The waste repeats. Forgotten veggies. Expired yoghurt. Another pack pushed to the back.

Some days supper feels like a performance review. Balanced. Healthy. Affordable. Quick. Tasty. Kid approved. Adult approved. Mood approved.

Some days toast wins. Breakfast for supper wins. Eggs save the evening. No one complains once food arrives.

The funny part. Once the plates land on the table, peace follows. Laughter returns. Stories appear. Energy lifts. The problem was never the eating. The problem was the thinking.

I talk to other parents. Same story. Same sigh. Same tired laugh. Supper thinking drains everyone.

I notice small hacks help. Planning earlier in the day. Repeating meals without guilt. Lowering standards. Accepting boring. Letting go of perfection.

The pressure comes from expectation. Social feeds. Old habits. The idea supper must impress. Supper feeds people. Supper keeps routines moving. Supper does not need applause.

Some evenings I stand back and laugh at myself. I solve complex problems for work. I overthink carrots at home.

This blog exists because writing clears my head. Saying the quiet parts out loud helps. Supper thinking feels small. Supper thinking steals time and energy.

Tomorrow the question will return. Whays for supper.

I still hate thinking about it.

But I hate it a little less when I admit it.