We stood there, at an impasse, staring across the yellowing linoleum chasm, neither party willing to back down. Like a pair of western gunslingers, pistols slung low on the hip, hands flexing with fingers spread and eyes concentrating on the smallest of twitches in anticipation of the one movement that foreshadowed an explosion of motion and sound. Time passed, breathing slowed, and sweat rolled slowly down the scalp, sliding below the shirt collar and turning clothing to cling wrap.
The illusion was shattered when a voice behind me asked, “What are you doing?” Refusing to take my eyes off my opponent for even a fraction of a second, I tilted my chin half an inch skyward. I caught peripheral movement to my right, followed by a head and shoulders, then J was standing between us seemingly unmindful of the danger he’d placed himself in. “That roast isn’t going to fit in that crockpot.”
“Duh,” I wanted to tell him, as I’d managed to figure that astute observation out on my own. It was the next question that stumped me.
“What are you going to do with it?”
Ah, THE question, and the entire reason for the OK Corral showdown in my apartment kitchen. I shrugged. “I have no freakin’ clue.”
Four and a half pounds of bone in chuck roast. It had seemed like a great buy at the time. Clearance sale no less and I had a tried and true recipe to use. Until I unwrapped the half cow and placed it next to the crockpot in question. A 1980’s burnt orange ceramic with a metal, egg-white colored shell, one piece pot with three settings, hi, low and off. Yep, a true antique or dinosaur, however once wants to classify it, and about 4 inches in diameter too small.
It was the ‘silly woman’ laugh that started a mental meltdown, frustration surfacing, teeth clenching and a tighter grip on my Pampered Chef tongs. They might only be hard plastic but I was pretty confident I could do some serious damage if I went ninja on ‘Chuck’. J grabbed the tongs and gently steered me away from the dead livestock, pushing me towards the dining room table.
“Relax, and go play with your cookies.”
I grabbed the mixing bowl of icing like a drowning sailor discovering a lifeline and plunked myself down at the table, refusing to look back. “What are you going to do?” I stared at the dozens of unfrosted cookies and felt the tension easing from my shoulders.
“Don’t worry about it, I got it covered.”
I didn’t worry. More from the fact that I’d reached a point I no longer cared about cooking and was entering a Zen moment creating ‘real’ food. Bakers can do that.
Soon I was covered with a fine dusting of powdered sugar, food color tinting my fingertips and I’d lost track of all the answers I’d given J. I was in that zone of contentment where all was right with the world and starting to smell something delicious masking the smell of liquid sugar pouring from the pastry bag.
Plonk. I stared in fascination at the bowl of salad next to my elbow. It was colorful, leafy with crumbled cheese and apple slices. “Where’d that come from?”
J laughed. “Your refrigerator.”
“How come I never saw it in there?” He’d have easily convinced me he’d gone to the store when I wasn’t looking.
“You mix it together.”
“No I don’t.”
“Well you can now, and here’s your dinner.”
I didn’t recognize Chuck, or at least the 4 inch strip broiled in barbeque he’d been transformed into. I poked at it experimentally, then licked my finger. “Mmm, that’s good,” I looked behind me. “Where’s the rest of it?”
J pointed to the crockpot. “Dinner for tomorrow.”
J left while I sat in stunned silence contemplating the black magic involved in this thing called cooking. All I saw in the vegetable bin was vegetables, and somehow he’d taken those individual items and composed not one, but two scrumptious meals, including Chuck.
I’m lacking that gift of sight at the moment, but throw me a bag of flour, sugar, butter and eggs and we’ll both have fun in the sandbox!
And I’ve learned my lesson, next time; I’m leaving Chuck in the store and opting for that petite cut.
The illusion was shattered when a voice behind me asked, “What are you doing?” Refusing to take my eyes off my opponent for even a fraction of a second, I tilted my chin half an inch skyward. I caught peripheral movement to my right, followed by a head and shoulders, then J was standing between us seemingly unmindful of the danger he’d placed himself in. “That roast isn’t going to fit in that crockpot.”
“Duh,” I wanted to tell him, as I’d managed to figure that astute observation out on my own. It was the next question that stumped me.
“What are you going to do with it?”
Ah, THE question, and the entire reason for the OK Corral showdown in my apartment kitchen. I shrugged. “I have no freakin’ clue.”
Four and a half pounds of bone in chuck roast. It had seemed like a great buy at the time. Clearance sale no less and I had a tried and true recipe to use. Until I unwrapped the half cow and placed it next to the crockpot in question. A 1980’s burnt orange ceramic with a metal, egg-white colored shell, one piece pot with three settings, hi, low and off. Yep, a true antique or dinosaur, however once wants to classify it, and about 4 inches in diameter too small.
It was the ‘silly woman’ laugh that started a mental meltdown, frustration surfacing, teeth clenching and a tighter grip on my Pampered Chef tongs. They might only be hard plastic but I was pretty confident I could do some serious damage if I went ninja on ‘Chuck’. J grabbed the tongs and gently steered me away from the dead livestock, pushing me towards the dining room table.
“Relax, and go play with your cookies.”
I grabbed the mixing bowl of icing like a drowning sailor discovering a lifeline and plunked myself down at the table, refusing to look back. “What are you going to do?” I stared at the dozens of unfrosted cookies and felt the tension easing from my shoulders.
“Don’t worry about it, I got it covered.”
I didn’t worry. More from the fact that I’d reached a point I no longer cared about cooking and was entering a Zen moment creating ‘real’ food. Bakers can do that.
Soon I was covered with a fine dusting of powdered sugar, food color tinting my fingertips and I’d lost track of all the answers I’d given J. I was in that zone of contentment where all was right with the world and starting to smell something delicious masking the smell of liquid sugar pouring from the pastry bag.
Plonk. I stared in fascination at the bowl of salad next to my elbow. It was colorful, leafy with crumbled cheese and apple slices. “Where’d that come from?”
J laughed. “Your refrigerator.”
“How come I never saw it in there?” He’d have easily convinced me he’d gone to the store when I wasn’t looking.
“You mix it together.”
“No I don’t.”
“Well you can now, and here’s your dinner.”
I didn’t recognize Chuck, or at least the 4 inch strip broiled in barbeque he’d been transformed into. I poked at it experimentally, then licked my finger. “Mmm, that’s good,” I looked behind me. “Where’s the rest of it?”
J pointed to the crockpot. “Dinner for tomorrow.”
J left while I sat in stunned silence contemplating the black magic involved in this thing called cooking. All I saw in the vegetable bin was vegetables, and somehow he’d taken those individual items and composed not one, but two scrumptious meals, including Chuck.
I’m lacking that gift of sight at the moment, but throw me a bag of flour, sugar, butter and eggs and we’ll both have fun in the sandbox!
And I’ve learned my lesson, next time; I’m leaving Chuck in the store and opting for that petite cut.
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