I made dinner tonite, a small roast with onions and potatoes, side of broccoli and rolls. This is kind of exciting because I never cook, although I know how, partially because when I was a kid I was expected to take over making dinner from about age 12. Nobody ever really took the time to teach me what to do or how to do it, so I just putter along and ruin about every 4th endeavor. No, really. Not slightly burned cookies or too many onions in the soup. An hour worth of cooking and a dinner's worth of food, inedible and nicely plated for the garbage. But anyway, since I've been home with my folks I've started cooking again, as my mom is often confined to bed and my dad is like me and would rather eat out or have microwaved something, but mom can't stand the idea of not having some semblance of a June Cleaver experience. Really. She'll spend several hours, most days, fretting about what we're going to eat, just as though it matters. "Oh, I didn't thaw anything, we'll have to go to the store." "Mom, nobody cares. Reheat something. Or don't, we're grownups, we probably will find the will to eat standing up from the fridge before we starve to death." "Well, I just like things to be NICE."
Sorry. This was just supposed to be about the nice little roast I cooked and almost didn't ruin.
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