TMI virgin here. Let’s do this thing:
OK, so I wanted to make this really wonderful pot roast on Sunday. It was a cool fall day, not cold but just a little crisp, and a slow, home cooked meal sounded just right. I am a major foodie and take great pride in making great meals.
I usually post my weekend menus on my Facebook status and I have fans waiting to read it. I shit you not. I have friends that love food that much and are just that desperate for entertainment. Sad but true.
So I toddle off to Kroger and come home with a beautiful shoulder roast intending to make this hunk of beef my crockpot’s bitch.
I add a little stock and mire poix veggies to the pot, sear the meat, deglaze that skillet and place the roast into the slow cooker, set it for low and got a bunch of other stuff done around the house.
After a couple of hours I check in on the roast. It’s beautifully brown, the veggies are perfect and the sauce is delicious. Ready to serve in less than a half hour.
So now it was time for a cold beer and a hot shower.
I grab a brew and head up to the bathroom. I get all soapy in the shower, lather, rinse and repeat and feel completely refreshed.
I wrap up in my big soft bathrobe, and maybe it’s the beer talking, but I am feeling a little amorous. Hot. Randy. Horny.
So I go looking for my hubby.
Now he’s a man, so all I really need to do is ask “You wanna?” and BOING! I have his complete attention. He follows me back to the bedroom, takes his own shower, and we proceed to have toe-curling, fireworks-type sex. Long, slow, hot monkey lovin’.
For over an hour. Almost two.
So then we got dressed and head down stairs for dinner. And we find the once-gorgeous roast now has the texture of an NFL football. Completely overcooked. Dinner pretty much ruined.
We opened a bottle of wine and ate the tough meat anyway.
And it was so totally worth it.
