Today is Bill Day, the one day of the week I slave over mail and statements.
Today is also Writing Day, one of the two definite days I dedicate to this blog.
Thursdays are usually pretty full, and if I stick to these two commitments, there’s little time for anything else during daylight hours.
Not Candy Crush.
Not Words with Friends, Facebook, nor for leisurely conversation IRL, for that matter.
I don’t always stick to that code, like today, when I decided to make my “world famous chocolate chip cookies.”
The body shop finished the repair on Zee (I think I was too sick to mention that Big Guy backed into her two days after I brought her home with a shiny new paint job) and the Body Guy loves my cookies.
Big Guy and some friends were going to hang out at the lake and they, too, devour my confections on first bite, so it just made sense that I should interrupt my regularly scheduled programming to do a little baking.
Wouldn’t you agree?
I haven’t cooked a meal in so long I can’t remember how long it’s been, so I also decided it would be a good day to prepare the roast I pulled from the freezer yesterday.
When my mom was visiting for Big Guy’s graduation, she made a pot roast so tender the photo I didn’t take would have made you slobber all over whatever device you were reading from.
Seriously. You’d have to change your shirt after looking at the picture.
The meat was so tender it almost melted like cotton candy on our tongues.
Unless it’s a freshly grilled, medium-well-burger (I don’t like my children or my food talking back to me) or a succulent piece of chicken breast, I’m not a big meat eater.
Sure, I enjoy an occasional pork chop, or superbly grilled filet of delicate fish, but there isn’t a meat alive (or dead) that rocks my world like my mother’s homemade carrot cake…
But I digress…
Though I enjoyed Mom’s culinary feat, what I enjoyed even more was her delight that was evident during the five hour process and the quiet moans that escaped from my lips of my meat-loving family.
Five hours, Journeyer!
How hard can it be? I thought as I coated the lump with salt, pepper, and flour just before tossing it into the pot for searing.
Prep. Put in pan. Leave it.
Just like Mom.
I later found out that I shorted the sear by half.
Ah, that little bit won’t make too big of a difference.
Two hours in I could smell that same aroma wafting through the house and into my office.
Mmmmm, just like when Mom made it.
As I continued tackling the day’s tasks, I imagined Warren’s and Big Guy’s smiles of appreciation that would surely come when they took their first bite.
At some point I remembered that my mom dropped whatever she was doing several times during the day and practically danced into the kitchen to dote on her preparations.
So about three hours in I went and opened the lid of Grandpa’s Dutch Oven to examine my masterpiece.
I pulled up some of the onions and draped them back over the meat as I examined the liquids in the bottom.
I was writing a life insurance check when the second whiff of burnt grub moved me to stop what I was doing and head to the kitchen.
This was definitely NOT going to be my mom’s famous pot roast.
The good news is that the venison did fall apart as I tried to lift the hunk of meat from the pan’s blackened bottom.
I’m just hoping I rescued dinner before the burnt smell found its way into the fibers.
I decided I’d be pressing my luck to try and cook the potatoes and carrots the way my mother did, so I skipped all of that.
Tonight’s meal consists of Not-My-Mom’s-Pot-Roast and some world-famous cookies.
Thankfully there’s a half-gallon of fresh milk in the fridge.
What’s on your plate? Go ahead! Share your culinary feats or foibles in the comments below!
Until next time, yours in hope, healing, and happiness,