This was the day that Mrs. C said that since she’ll be the one that’s quite probably working in the near future, we have to make sure that nobody within our family starves or that their teeth suddenly fall out all at once.
I still wanted to know what was wrong with peanut butter and toast with a glass of milk as a daily diet. It has protein, calcium and carbs in there. What more does a person need? Nutrients? Ha! Don’t make me burst into uncontrollable snorting laughter!
After the baleful stare, I stepped into line and progressed to the kitchen where there were many implements and interesting pieces of equipment. One of them was called a ‘freezer’ and another one was called a ‘slow cooker’. Remarkably, it cooks slowly. Fancy that! We had things like knives and scissors and just about everything including the kitchen sink. It was a place of mystery and delight, where the description on the back of freezer meals are as long as an appendix from Lord of the Rings, Kraft Dinner was a cornucopia of joy and the Norwex mop was kept on standby by Pup, although he just likes to use the handle and not the actual mop head. He may only be 18 months old, but at least he’s willing.
Myself and Mrs. C were going to make a slow cooker recipe based on a pork roast. It will also involve apples. So, we have a few ingredients for it (from angelaskitchen.com):
2 lbs of dead pig or pork roast, whichever way you want to say it
1 medium onion, thinly sliced, so no fat shaming here
1 large cooking apple, cored and cut in ½” wedges slices
1 cup unsweetened applesauce
2 tablespoons maple syrup
1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar
1 tablespoon ground cinnamon
½ tablespoon ground ginger
½ teaspoon rubbed or ground sage
½ teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
I love how everybody first starts a recipe method without actually going through the basics like, wash your hands and make sure that the dead pig meat, sorry, pork roast is kept separate from the fruit and veg. I guess that you’re supposed to know these things, but hey, I’m an idiot and I need to be told to do this as well, even if I’m 37 years old.
We washed the roast and dried it with paper towels, then cut evenly spaced slits into the roast, halfway through, about 1½ to 2 inches apart. We then prepared to make some apple wedges, simply by cutting the cooking apple right down the middle and then we had a light argument about how long half-an-inch was which ended with me winning and putting on my smug face after we measured one wedge accordingly. I mean, seriously, I was in Quality Control, I used to measure all sorts of things for a living. I can now successfully add ‘apples’ to that list, I guess.
After my stupendous triumph, we placed the sliced apples into the slits in the roast, then seasoned it with salt and pepper. So far, so good.
I took out a small bowl, put it back after a remonstration, took out a slightly larger bowl that I could not see too much of difference about, poured in the apple sauce and added maple syrup, vinegar, cinnamon, ginger, sage and the red pepper flakes. Then I stirred it altogether like Hamish McStirrer, winner of the Stirring Contest in Scotland for the last twelve years, aye!
I carefully placed the roast into the slow cooker. Then I got the bad news. I had to slice an onion.
No! Nonononononoononooooononooooono! No!
Onions are my kryptonite when it comes to cooking. I silently die, with big, salty tears of shame thundering down my cheeks. I think I may be slightly allergic to them, but then one of my doctor friends would say something along the lines of:
‘How can you say that you’re slightly allergic? You may as well say that you’re slightly pregnant.’
Helpful logic at this time. Nevertheless, I looked at the onion, Mrs. C looked at me with a Cheshire grin and the onion did not look at either of us, because it’s a vegetable. I sighed, opened up a window, washed my hands and prepared myself. I peeled back the onion skin by a couple of layers, then chopped off both ends of the onion. Chopped it in half. Sniffed. Turned it around and started to slice one half. I was starting to sniff more. I shall not wipe my eyes. If I do, then it’s game over with no respawns. I couldn’t control it. I knew that my eyes will be two ocean-like orbs if I didn’t get myself going.
Done! I survived! I asked, asked in my own stupid home, if I could put the ceiling fan on. I was given permission. I put it on. I stood underneath it. If there was a camera above it, it would have shown me to have the same expression as that famous bit in The Shawshank Redemption after Tim Robbins gets out of prison.
I wonder whatever happened to Tim Robbins…?
I placed the sliced onions on top and around the roast, then added the rest of the apples around it. The smallish bowl of the apple sauce mixture was poured on top, a lid was put on, prayers were said, the slow cooker was plugged in after a thought, set on low and then we stood there and stared at it for 6 to 8 hours, just to make sure.
Just kidding, we went shopping.
Supper was glorious. The meat just fell apart, lovely and tender and we had it along with vegetables from Mrs. C’s garden and mashed potatoes. I’m British, we love our mashed ‘taters. Butterfly, our threenager, actually ate it under the span of half an hour, in between talking about giants and how bad it is to run your fork through your hair because then it would get sticky and you need to have a bath.
It’s nice to be armed with wisdom on a daily basis, isn’t it?