God, everything seems to be a production around here. Brigitte was sneezing like a squirrel yesterday and then today I sneezed, like, literally, fifteen times in a row.
It was my plan to cook the pot roast, so indeed, I woke up out of an Ambien-induced sleep this morning and went to get all the vegetables at Exo Fruits and came back, but started sneezing shortly thereafter. So we both took Actifed. Mistake! We died as if being snowploughed by a team of meese. Woke up with a jerk at 4 and realised I had neglected to spice-rub the roast . . . Oh, the Humanity!
Anyway, long story short, got that done and the bastard is in the oven sitting on a bed of garlic cloves, celery and carrots (Brigitte told me in no uncertain terms: NO TOMATOES).
Cut new potatoes, halved them and sautéed them in garlic butter (of my own making, I'll have you know!) then did halved onions -- I forgot the pearl type, which I regret -- and then long green beans, which I did with a slight Indian touch of cumin seed and turmeric. Put all those creatures together in their own roasting pan and put them in with the roast on 400.
God knows how this will all turn out; it's all on the fly, McFly. Hopefully the beans will turn out browned and succulent, the potatoes soft yet not overdone, the meat absolutely falling apart on the-not-bone, and the shiitake and button-mushroom sauce I am planning will just make everything SING. (No pastis! Don't you admire my restraint?)
Ahh, I guess we'll find out. I may even take pictures of this potential disaster. At least I'll have a record for next time.
But just remember this one word, my precious peasants: pan-juices. THAT ALONE will save the day.
The sermon hath officially been delivered for this, the fourteenth day of our Weasel, 2009.
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