Like She Needs A Reminder

I make stew.

 

Specifically, whenever beef stew meat is on sale at el supermercado (I’m not just typing spanish, that’s the name of this grocery store) I go buy some and that’s when I make a BIG GIANT 25-PORTION pot of stew. Because when I cute potatoes and carrots and meat, I can’t seem to get my brain to add all those things together and realize that I don’t have an army to feed.

 

Today I went and got the meat (a cultural and socio-political situation of terrible unrest if ever i encounter one – because I don’t know enough Spanish to really order meat and I don’t want to look stupid but i also dont want to assume they DO or DO NOT (this time they didn’t) speak english at this place…WOE TO ME over the meat-buying).  So I came home and made the stew. Which, once you have the things to put in it, involves three steps.

 

Cut the things.

Boil the things.

Stir the cut, boiled things.

 

I know. Culinary genius. Be jealous. I encourage that because it’ so Godly. And clearly, so am I. (You’d believe that more if you could smell the heavenly aroma of this stew, people.)

 

But step three has to be revisited many times because that’s how I tell if it’s done. There may be, in a magical realm of not-my-brain, a reasonable time after which to assess the readiness of the stew. But instead I stir and then pick up a potato or something and see how hard it is to cut.

 

Today, the carrots and the potatoes were having a serious disagreement. Potatoes: perfectly tender-firm. Great for stew. Carrots? Still crunchy. Rude.

So here’s the convo that just went down between Nat the Knitter (my newest roommate) and I re: the stew.

 

“How is it?”
“The carrots are too firm. I’m seriously contemplating fishing out all the individual chunks of carrot- JUST THE CARROTS, steaming them separately and then re-adding them. Because at this point they are compromising the integrity of the stew.”
“Texture issues.”
“I am not above this neurosis.”

She just nodded and continued her assent of the stairs because, really, did she need a reminder that I’m not above neuroses? No. She lives with me. And graciously forgives me for my piled laundry. Right, Nat?

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