Pot Roast

Circa 1999. Pre-divorce, pre-don't eat much red meat any more era. It's been several years since I've cooked a pot roast.  

            “Mmm. . . something smells good!” my husband will say as he comes in the door tonight, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, drawing in the warm, distinct odor of mushroom and onion soup mix. “Mmm . . . pot roast?” he’ll ask, putting his arms around me, drawing me in with another deep breath, as if the aroma were coming from me.

            “Pot roast,” I’ll smile and answer, although it won’t be necessary.

            I’m not sure why I call it “pot roast.” I don’t cook it in a pot. I cook it in a Reynolds Oven Bag. That way there’s no messy pot to clean up after. A better way to cook pot roast is in a pressure cooker. The meat comes out so tender and juicy that you have to serve it with a spatula and scoop it into your mouth with a fork to eat it. Otherwise you’d never get more than a few pink threads to your mouth at a time.

            I know this because my mom has a pressure cooker. Though I don’t remember her making pot roast very often when I lived home. Probably because she stopped making family dinners when I was thirteen. I suppose she would have made me something if I had asked, but I didn’t like to ask. And I didn’t like any of the foods she bought and prepared for my stepfather anyway. I missed the pork chops and applesauce, the asparagus omelets, and the Sunday crepes we used to have. I was hungry for food I liked, food that I was used to. But my mom had her own unfed hungers, so I didn’t ask.

            No one has to ask my mother-in-law for food. She doesn’t give you the chance. From the moment you walk in her house until the moment you leave, she tries to stuff you. In fact, she even sends food home with you so she can stuff you long-distance. She doesn’t cook pot roasts, though. She cooks eye-round roasts. And instead of a pressure cooker, she uses a heavy old iron pot that cooks the meat perfectly, no matter how hard she tries to overcook it. My mother-in-law believes every hunger can be fed, and fed, and fed . . .

            I’ve decided that for now, I’m going to stick with the Reynolds Oven Bags, even if the meat isn’t quite as tender as the pressure cooker or the iron pot. Besides, pot roast isn’t something I make for company. I make it only for my husband and my kids. They can eat it and relax and not be self-conscious. My eldest child can eat with their fingers and lick the plate clean when they're done. “I have to get the last drop of gravy,” they always tell me.

            Eldest kiddo likes gravy on their potatoes, just like their dad does. They both make volcanoes out of their potatoes and gravy. My husband sacrifices his vegetables to the volcano, but my eldest kiddo prefers to eat theirs separately, with their fingers, like the meat. Fortunately, my husband doesn’t use his fingers or lick his plate. No, he simply likes to eat and eat until he has to unbutton his jeans and he’s feeling soporific. You know, like Peter Rabbit and all those heads of lettuce from Farmer MacGregor’s garden. He’ll eat until he feels like he needs a nap.

            My youngest child, on the other hand, eats nothing like his father or his sibling. Basically, he eats nothing. He lives mostly on bread and fruit. He says pot roast is “yucky” and squishes his nose at it. He won’t eat beef unless it’s processed leftover lips, livers, and assorted other parts pressed into a neat little log and served on a bun. No catsup. No condiments. Of course, I don’t tell youngest kiddo how his cherished hot dogs are made. I just serve them up with some plums, some chocolate milk, and a Flintstone’s vitamin. I’m just glad that he eats.

 I’m glad that they all eat, no matter how or what they eat. And as for me? Well, I guess I really haven’t said much about how I eat pot roast. To tell the truth, it’s not one of my favorite foods to eat. But it is one of my favorites to prepare and serve. Even if it’s not as tender as I would like it to be. Or even if I can never seem to get it to the table steaming hot. My family still enjoys it. It warms them.

***

            “Mmm. . . something smells good!” my husband will say as he comes in the door tonight, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, drawing in the warm, distinct odor of mushroom and onion soup mix. “Mmm . . . pot roast?” he’ll ask, putting his arms around me, drawing me in with another deep breath, as if the aroma were coming from me.

            “Pot roast,” I’ll smile and answer, knowing that by the time grace is said and the plates are full, I will have already feasted.