Therefore, I decided 2012 was going to be the start of my transition into actual adulthood. Not young adulthood, but actual be responsible, think long term, don't be a college kid moron, adulthood.
This began with my freezer.
From lots of cut up vegetables to meats I am terrified to cook, it is starting to be a bit ridiculous. I often take one look inside at what could be a real meal, put my head down, and call 549-5326 (...That's Quatros for you non-Carbondalites.)
I felt that in order to use up what I actually had, I had to know what I actually had. Makes sense, right?
This resulted in all of the food being laid out on my table as I created a list of everything there. What I discovered is that there is real potential here. Lots of meat. Lots of veggies. And an assortment of high-processed boxed foods belonging to my roommate. (Thankfully, I also decided to begin avoiding this type of monstrosity we so often shove into our bodies, so there was no problem in simply putting them back in the freezer.)
This led to the need for a plan. I've got my list of potential ingredients, a laptop, and little time with the up and coming book rush season at 710 Bookstore.
I glanced over my list and saw a (2) next to the word "roast." That meant, you guessed it. It was time to make my first roast. However, I don't have the time to slave of preparing a roast. I needed something quick and easy. Easy? What word equates with that? Crockpot. Now to everyone else, this machine is a God-send. To me, it was terrifying and I have successfully avoided this device for almost two years of living on my own. Ridiculous. I know.
Fast forward through a bunch of online researching on Pinterest and food websites (procrastinating on the inevitable) and I finally settled on a plan.
Ingredients: 1/2 of a roast, sweet potatoes, celery, red pepper, onions, and chicken gravy. (Granny always used chicken gravy, and it's what I had.)
I started with what seemed the most simple. Peel and cut the sweet potatoes. Let me just say, that name is a fallacy. These damn things were the devil! I about gave up at the peeling stage. Let alone having to do the actually cutting. I ended up with a wicked cut on my thumb. And a sore palm from pushing the machete through the potato. Evil.
|Note the assortment of knives it took.|
That evening I entered my apartment to the delicious, non-burnt smell, of a roast.
|The meat was literally falling off the bone!|
I guess this path to becoming domestic woman isn't so bad...minus the not-so-sweet potatoes.