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… better than pot roast can?
To celebrate our oldest daughter’s homecoming from university yesterday, I wanted to make something warm and rich and wonderful for dinner. But as I had to be at the office of a client all day, I knew that “that something” would have to come from my crockpot.
In the mood to try something a little different, I did a quick Internet search for pot roast, and came upon this recipe.
Food purists might balk at the pre-packaged ingredients. But on a busy day, that’s exactly what appealed to me. The recipe is simple – has only a couple of ingredients (all of which I had on hand), and I knew I could throw it together quickly and easily, always an important consideration at 6 a.m.
The only thing I did differently was this: we had some lovely Italian red wine (made by our lovely Italian neighbour) so I added some of that (I’m guessing about a half-cup) to the mixture, thinking it might help further tenderize the meat and enhance flavours. I set the crockpot on low and it did its thing while I was out all day.
When I got home, I took the recipe’s advice and roasted the vegetables separately. I cut up a large onion, scrubbed and cut (in one-inch chunks) half-a-dozen potatoes and a couple handfuls of baby carrots. Tossed everything together with some olive oil, coarse salt and Herbes de Provence, then spread the works on a tray and baked for about 40 minutes in a 400 degree oven.
Dinner was scrumptious! The roast literally fell apart, the vegetables demanded second helpings and the gravy was thick, rich, silky smooth and intensely satisfying.
Our hungry student’s reaction? At first mouthful, she closed her eyes and tilted her head back – ever so slightly. She didn’t chew. She didn’t move. I honestly wondered for the briefest moment if she might be praying.
When she opened her eyes and saw we were all staring at her, she laughed, “Just savouring every one of the flavours.”
Welcome home, honey.
***
“An ordinary meal is an extraordinary coming together of life … The sharing of such meals is the most ordinary of human endeavours … and, at the same time, the most extraordinary. The most earthly … and the most heavenly. The most routine … and the most spiritual.” – Eugene H. Peterson
You know – the bleep button that television people use when they want to eliminate something before it hits the airwaves. Bleeping is only possible because such broadcasts are either pre-recorded or ever-so-slightly delayed, not quite live to air. If you had a bleep button – you could see the consequences of your actions far enough in advance that you could either prevent them altogether or bleep them out before they had a chance to do their destructive damage.
Yesterday I found myself wishing I had a bleep button.
I was vacuuming in the basement, under my 13-year-old’s sewing desk. (Jenna likes to sew).
Jenna's sewing desk
Sucking up wads of thread clippings, an invisible dropped pin or two and a few dust bunnies, I moved aside a plastic bag that was also there, and peeked inside – Bleep! – to determine both its contents and its proper storage place. Bleep!
I won’t tell you what the bag contained. But I will tell you it was beautiful.
Later, when Jenna came home from school, I asked her about it. Bleep! Bleep!
Oh, my question was of the friendly, mildly curious sort. And I asked in complete innocence. I simply asked her where it came from. Bleep!
But she was devastated.
Jenna doesn’t show her devastation loudly. She just sat there quietly for a moment. Said not a word at first. Her eyes reddened, then glistened with moisture. A single tear brimmed. And spilled over. Silently.
I think silent devastation is even worse than the noisy kind.
Then, “It’s your Christmas present,” she said, ever so softly. “I was making it for you.”
“Merry Christmas.”
There are some moments in life you never forget. I think this will be one of them. In that instant, I felt like a total heel. I also felt overwhelmingly proud of my daughter. And incredibly, monumentally, enormously blessed to be her mom.
“When you have brought up kids, there are memories you store directly in your tear ducts.” – Robert Brault
