Even though it’s a comfort food from when I was a child, I sometimes forget how much I like pot roast. It is a Yankee culinary delight. Richie basted this one in our crockpot last Monday. The meat cooked so slowly, it quickly melted in my mouth. The carrots, Irish potatoes and onions swam alongside in the delicious gravy on my plate. Yankee me couldn’t get enough, even after several pot roast dinners last week. I am comforted as the cold weather approaches; warmed by the wood stove, a crock pot and my man.
I am a fan of Stephen King and his descriptive storytelling. This adjective noun combination was expertly placed within Duma Key and immediately provoked an image in my mind. I thought Mr. King’s use of “astronaut chicken” was hysterical and highly effective. His writing ability guarantees an active reading experience and defines the power of word selection. This language architect does not need an illustrator for his novels or blockbuster movie; every scene is visibly acted out in the reader’s mind.
The last time, and I mean the last time, I went flea marketing with my husband was a nightmare. He wanted coffee and I wanted to look at the toys and dolls. I told him I would take a quick look at the collectibles and be right back.
I guess he really did need some java!
2 T olive oil
1 T balsamic vinegar
1 T raspberry jam
1 t mustard
Sprinkle of garlic powder
Sprinkle of white pepper
Dash of salt
Whisk until oil is visibly blended
Salad: Romaine, walnuts, dried cranberry, feta cheese (and chicken, if desired).
Our girls are finally settled in their new apartments as of today. It’s been a lot of hard work and I am excited for them. However, tonight my husband and I got back to some 1×1 cooking. The above vinegraitte recipe is the result of a sadly quieter house at the same time it is a renewed sense of being together. I was the sous chef but didn’t mind, since I learn the family recipes and food secrets my husband has tucked away in his Cordon Bleu brain. The last time Richie made this recipe, he whisked it up in moments and kept the ingredient list to himself. I historically just eat the fruits of his labor! I love working side-by-side in the kitchen again but why am I still writing at this hour? Perhaps some other 1×1 cooking is in order…
Preserving my sense of humor
Our married motto for the last ten years has been the common “I cook – you clean”, mainly because I don’t cook anymore and he doesn’t clean. It’s important to a good marriage to understand these basics! It’s also key to spend time apart once in awhile.
Now with Richie out of town, I had to cook and clean. By cook I mean, open a box. From my secret stash for such occasions. I made an ambitious attempt to make my own dinner. I cooked the macaroni to perfection – not al dente and not too soft. As it drained, I went back to the pan on the stove to create a sauce. I reached into the refrigerator, that’s alongside the stove, and threw in half a stick of butter. It quickly started to melt and snap as it hit the bottom of the sauce pan. Trying to be faster than the heat, I reached in the ‘frig again for the milk jug, and without measuring, poured in my idea of 1/4 cup. The jug label on the counter mocked an explanation as to why my sauce was now brown. I’d used the cider jug!
Gratefully, I was still hungry and ate it anyway. It was a taste of fall as I fell from grace. Luckily Richie was away. It helped a good marriage last a little longer.
It’s the first time we’re not with our two girls on Thanksgiving, since the year before Tarah was born. That’s 20 years of tradition that now has to be different. People say embracing change is a good thing. As the day unfolds, I’ll be the judge of that.
It started yesterday when I was thrilled to be working from home, so I could be there when my youngest arrived from campus. She stayed long enough to unpack the car, drop-off her laundry – and leave to meet friends for dinner. Typical. It’s happened before. They’ve been away from home long enough for me to know their world revolves around more than me.
I still didn’t have a commute, what’s-his-name and I had a nice dinner together and we’d paid the electric bill – so we were also able to leave the outside lights on. Evidently, Tarah had a long dinner with friends because of the holiday.
I can sleep before they get home nowadays but I still wake up in the early hours to check on them in their rooms. She was safe in her bed and clearly exhausted. She’d been too tired to even flick the outside lights to ‘off’.
It’s now 7:30 a.m. and I’m wondering if it was passive aggressive of me to pick this hour of the day to unload the dishwasher? Is my husband reacting the same way as he finishes baking for the day – with his Android playing The Doors? Either way, it’s got to be less disturbing than the dorms, right?
As the day only starts to unfold, I wonder if she’s in her room questioning the day she was born? I’m going to ponder that as I change out of my pajamas and fold some laundry.
Stay tuned for future “Parts” of our day…
We just had some good old fashioned comfort food.
It’s what I call, here in New England, cornah-on-the-cob.
My husband was just like the kids in ar old neighborhood though:
“What are we having with it?”
“Your cholesterol is too high.”
You’re high if you think I’m eating this without buttah.
“Very funny, what else?”
Well, I didn’t buy lobstah, so just use some buttah.
“Are you a Yankee comedienne?”
No, we just don’t happen to live in Glostah, where there’s a few extra cohd hanging around.
There wasn’t a lot of dinner conversation but my Irish self was comfortable with the food I boiled.
My husband just went to read a book.
On his way into the next room, he tried to hide his peanut buttah sandwich.
I literally had my life in my hands. Both hands were on the steering wheel but luckily had enough instinct to save me. I pulled into the local Asian restaurant and quickly paused at the entrance to decide if I should go straight and park in the back or turn left and park in front of the door.
My hands held tight to the wheel and decided not to turn. The driver of a parked vehicle looked left but not toward the entrance and backed toward me. He had no idea I was there.
I stopped altogether and decided to stay there until the driver realized he almost took me out along with his crab rangoon. I thought about what expression, or gesture, to give him once he attempted to exit alongside me.
He realigned his wheels, changed gears and looked up.
He moved toward my bitchy face just as I recognized his face.
I was suddenly in a much worse position than him. One of, if not THE, nicest guys in town. Genuine and sweet not just to me but our girls. Welcoming and interested not just in my husband but our entire family.
He recognized me right away and acknowledged my vehicle in a way only he could. He flashed his infectious smile and yelled out, “Hello darlin’!”
The stress of the day rolled off as I rolled my window further down to appropriately respond, “Hi sweetie!” I moved forward to now get out of his way.
“I’m so sorry. You know I love you.” I heard him yelling an apology as his vehicle moved toward the exit.
I drove to the rear of the lot screaming,”I love you too!”
It was a scream – literally and figuratively. We had the instincts to save each other from embarrassment before we died of it. I’ll always remember Kevin trying to take me out the day I went to get take out.