Isn’t it fun when you mix up the space esbetwe enwords? No? OK. Start again:

Pot Roast

I made it. Batman lurved it. I was grumpy today. Some women apologise; me, I make food in lieu. (D, if you’re reading, Yes, I am now showing affection with food.) I also made him apple crumble (for I was very grumpy, and it is his favourite Afters). We had a pointless grouch because he was wearing his best jumper whilst dusting down a cobweb. I know what you are thinking. It is either:

1. Is she crazy? He voluntarily does housework, and she grouches ’cause of his jumper?

or 2. Cobwebs? What a slatternly housewife.

In answer:

1. Yes, I know. That is why he got Pot Roast and crumble.

2. Yeah. So what. Bite me. It was only a cobweb, not a jar of anthrax.

I bought the pot roast yesterday, in a proper Butcher’s Shop. It’s quite scary. It’s kind of a rite of passage to becoming a grown-up woman, having dealings with the Butcher. The place was packed, and it was all businesslike-city-butchers, not the wayhey-missus-look-at-thighs-on-that-(chicken) small-town butchers, that I’ve visited with Mum. I’ve only ever been to the butcher a couple of times by myself, and usually with a direct instruction about what to get. The woman in front of me was buying noisettes of lamb, and 800 grammes, no make it 900 grammes, of something else. Me, I was figuring if the pink thing was pork (which Bats will eat) or lamb (which he won’t). Grammes don’t mean anything to me, not outside the lab anyway. In a past life, I spent a lot of time weighing out six thousandths of a gramme of this and eleven thousandths of the other, using a very fiddly microbalance. It was fun. But 800 grammes of dead cow? I have no concept of that. I cook in ounces and pounds (although I measure in cm and m, except for height).

So I was feeling intimidated, and a bit sweaty, and trying to figure how much steak to buy and could I ask for a certain amount or did I just have to take a pre-cut piece, when, all at once, I saw the pot roast. Aha! Ah ha ha ha! It said “POT ROAST” on the sign. Then I was home on a boat.

“Next!” said the Butcher. (I know this bit now, I have to pretend to know how much I need.)

“How much is in that pot roast, please?”

“Nearly 2 3/4 pounds.” (Hurrah for Imperial Measurements! Although should I be annoyed that he pegged me for an ounces woman when the grammes lady was clearly much older than me? Well, I thought she was, but…)

“That’ll do lovely, thanks!”

You do know that it wouldn’t have mattered a hoot how much or little it weighed. A few short moments later, it was mine, and I was skipping from the Butcher’s, like a child on the last day of school. I seared it in butter and oil, and cooked it with onions, carrots, celery and stock. It melted in the mouth. I feel one step closer to being a grown-up. And he did deserve it after me being grumpy this afternoon.

(PS: We are going to be eating pot roast for a month. It is far too big. But I survived the Butcher’s.)

10.05pm on Saturday, so what might I be doing? Making out the damned rota for February. What else would you do on a fine Saturday night? The full moon is making me cranky and inappropriate. I banged the table at Batman tonight, but not at him exactly. I was pretending that I was answering someone who really really really bugs the shit out of me. Bats laughed and said he wished I’d say it to them, not him.

What is it about celery? Look at it sideways, and my hands reek of it for days. I made pot roast tonight, and my hands are stinking. The pot roast is pot roasting nicely. However, tonight’s dinner of lasagne was not so successful. Tip: do not replace lasagne with penne if you run out of lasagne halfway through compounding the dish. It just makes teeth-crackingly crunchy bits. I am still not a Domestic Goddess.

I bought a frock today. It is black, with patterned sleeves, and spangles around the bottom.  I am not sure how good an idea this will be, but Batman and I are going to Gotham next weekend and I need to look like I have bought some clothes this century, apart from scrubs (not bought, of course) and cords (rediscovered in back of wardrobe). Batman will be donning academic dress, to sit on the platform and look clever. I will be clapping enthusiastically, in a spangly kind of way.

I have got a big thing for black patent this winter. I have mad sore high black patent shoes (from Clarks) and divinedarling flat black mock-croc boots from Dune. The boots have been glued to my feet for weeks. Comfort and style. Excellent.

Back to the rota. Gosh, but it’s boring. My right leg is asleep from the knee down (and my brain from the chin up).

Hours and hours of operating today, but I got to do rather a razzy operation (under supervision of Da Boss, but he kept mostly out of it), which was facking awesome. There’s no other expression for the buzz from some good operating. Today, I do not hate my job.

Now I am dog-tired, working on the rota, and thinking of bed. In other jolly news, I have an announcement. No, not that. Wise up. It it this: for the first time since July, I weigh less than 11 stone. Hoo Ray. Married life = massive waist/butt expansion. Upcoming sister’s wedding = sensible eating plan. It works, slowly and boringly, but it works.

WordPress and/or iPhone ate my post. It was such a good one, too. Dangnamit.

I have been up since 03.47 am. I am getting too old for this. I used to bounce up and down, without a second thought. Now I am audibly creaking just ’cause I had to get up in the middle of the night. Worst bit was arriving home just as my alarm clock went off. There’s no point in trying a ten-minute-snooze, it ends in oversleeping. All you can do is stay awake, feeling gently nauseated by fatigue. I fell asleep in the audit meeting this afternoon, which wasn’t so smart ’cause HeadBoss was behind me. As soon as the lights go out and the PowerPoint starts, I’m unconscious. Exactly how I plan to be in three seco……zzzzzzzzz

Gosh oh, it’s been a while. Work is…hectic. I wish that people would take better care of their children. Even allowing for my resolutely non-parent status, I figure that letting nine-year-olds do dangerous things is never going to turn out well.

There are now so many jobs on the to-do list that I hadn’t even realised that FB had been shut down. I apologise, and repent, and will blog more. But not now, there’s a man coming to measure me for double glazing and the house is in a state. I must go and redd up.