Once upon a time I was asked to cook a pot roast for my family.
I was shocked at said request because I hate cooking, I hate talking about it, I hate doing it, why cook when you can have someone else do it for you? Besides… I didn’t even know what animal a pot roast came from. To me a pot roast took me back to high school and college… and a pipe and a lighter was all that was necessary for our pot roasts.
I enter the grocery store at approximately 1:00 p.m. and strolled my pot roast virgin cooking self over to the meat section. I was two seconds from asking this friendly couple which hunk of red dead animal carcass was the pot roast..but I didn’t. When what to my wondering eyes should appear but a label that said the word “Roast” on it. I didn’t know who Chuck was, but I’m sure he’s a close friend of Pot, so I grabbed it.
There’s Chuck swaddled in garlic, salt, pepper, and some steak seasoning, with some flour. (How do you bang a fat chick?) I saw the word “sear” in the recipe (that I didn’t follow), and knew that it was blasting all sides of the meat at a high temp for like 37 seconds. At this point I wasn’t sure why there was a rope wrapped around the meat, but I just left it (if it ain’t broke…).
2.5 hours simmering in the delectable broth that I had managed to make, it was time to add Mr. Carrott and Mrs. Potato, along with their primary caregiver, Dr. Celery. I quietly whispered into the pot “Have fun in the tub, bastards” and went on to attempt the roux.
Roux…roux…roux…short for Kangaroo? I drained my veggies and Chuck, brought the juices to a boil, simmered, then added the flour and water ever so slooooooowly… so as to avoid clumpage. I did not avoid clumpage, so I decided to strain the clumps out and enjoy a smooth clump-free gravy. All was almost lost when I started to pour the gravy into the strainer and down the sink drain. Oops… I need a bowl I guess! Here is the finished product. Excuse me while I take a bow.