Hi there. Long time no see. You look thin. Let me make you something.
But maybe not a pot roast.
Monday, I worked from home. It was lovely. I mean, I struggled a bit with the whole working thing. (Eventually I got some work done.) Around 3pm or so, it was time for me to peel some potatoes and throw some carrots and meat into the Crock Pot I had just purchased that morning. I was going to make my first pot roast.
Let me stop here. How well do you know me? If you know me well, you know that I’m no chef. At all. Occasionally I luck out and make something and it’s awesome. My first time shot at a new recipe? It’s questionable, but usually edible. I figure out what I could have done better, and if I make it again, it usually is. In between all this “cooking” I do? I don’t cook. EVER. We eat pizza. Take-out. Spaghetti and store-bought sauce. Chicken nuggets. I’m not winning any parenting awards here. WE GET BY. I’ll repeat – I. DON’T. COOK. Full stop.
So, this past weekend, when I knew I was going to be home during the day, I figure now’s as good a time as any to try my hand at slow-cooking…Crock Pot style. I grab my spice packet from the Target bag, follow the directions (slice veggies and throw into pot, add meat, then combine spice packet + 1 cup water, pour over veggies and meat) and place the cover on the pot. There’s a four or eight hour cooking time options. I set the temperature, and know that when the hubs comes home from work four hours later, this place is going to smell wonderful and dinner will be served. Wife/Mom of the year? STEP RIGHT UP.
(I know that most of you probably do this shit at least twice a week and no one bats an eye. This seriously was like, a huge deal for me. No joke.)
I leave to pick up Abby an hour and a half later, and I can’t smell anything yet. I figure…it’s still got two and a half hours left. It’ll smell good soon. We get back, we play a bit…and I realize I’m still not smelling anything. I check the pot, without removing the cover. (See? I can follow directions!) It’s cooking, but…not what I would expect it would look like. Yet, I question nothing.
Seven o’clock rolls around. The hubs will be home in a half hour. Suddenly…a moment of clarity. Four hours on low. Four hours. On low. That doesn’t make any sense if there’s an eight hour option. Is there a lower setting than low? No. OH CHRIST ON A CRACKER I EFFING SET THE TEMPERATURE WRONG.
I dig the spice packet out of the trash and sure enough: “8 hours on low, 4 hours on high.” See what I did there? Let me show you: “8 hours on LOW 4 HOURS on high.”
All I could do was laugh at this point. I have a half hour to cook a roast another 4 hours. We’ll be eating at 11:30pm.
I managed to fuck up a crock pot recipe. It’s like…fate.
We ate spaghetti that night.
I took the pot out of the cooker around 8:30pm. Let it cool a bit and threw it in the fridge. I’d try again last night. I let it cook (longer maybe than needed but at this point it could only help me) but we still didn’t eat it because ELECTION NIGHT PIZZA WINE PANICCCCCC, but before bed I put it all into a plastic tub and threw it in the fridge. For tonight.
I put some on a plate for Abbers, heated it in the microwave for one minute. When it was done, I tried to cut it up into pieces for her – I swear that meat was so tough it’d kick all your teeth in before the fork passed your lips. TOTALLY inedible. The potatoes and carrots were alright but WHAT THE FLYING FUCK.
I seriously would love to pick up the entire Crock Pot and throw it out the window into the backyard where I could only hope that the squirrels would somehow find a way to make that thing their collective bitch.
(See how I’m mad at the Crock Pot? Like it’s the appliance’s fault I’m a moron?)
We ate frozen spring rolls for dinner tonight.
Please don’t call CPS.