RickinNYC
DIS Veteran
- Joined
- Apr 22, 2003
- Messages
- 7,870
My best pal had spent almost two weeks in the hospital and as a result of his illness, significant weight loss was the result. He was also pretty weakened by the experience and had difficulty with his energy level. Joe and I were pretty concerned so we encouraged him to come over on Saturday for dinner, movies and games. In addition to fattening the boy up, we also wanted to distract him from his all around general "blah" feeling.
I decided that we should whip up a pot roast in the slow cooker, put together a side of home made macaroni and cheese, a green salad and lots of fresh vegetables. I will admit that I carefully chose the menu because I knew Joe would be able to cook everything with little to no help from yours truly. I am usually the cook in the house but wanted to be a bum while Chris visited. He's MY best friend after all.
Not sure if any of you use internet grocery shopping. If not, and it's available in your neighborhood, do it! It's the single greatest invention since the La-Z-Boy recliner, the universal remote and pick-up/drop-off laundry service. I haven't had to go to the supermarket in several years now that I've discovered FreshDirect.
One word of warning, however. If you use internet shopping, know your weights and measures. Put them to memory, store them in your Palm Pilot, write them down and stick them on your bulletin board. Do something. Don't ever assume that because you grocery shop, you already know just how big or small something might be. In orders past, I had purchased oranges only to be graced with a giant bag of citrus fit for an orange banquet in Orangetown, USA during the Orange Festival. I had also purchased little odds and ends of nibbly things, with the intention of putting together an anti pasta platter for a brunch we were hosting, only to find that I had actually bought a paper thin wedge of cheese fit for a sandwich, a half dozen olives and a pepperoni stick fit for hitting grounders to left field. Joe had to go to the supermarket to buy enough that day (I sent him because I don't go there anymore with the advent of convenient internet grocery shopping in case you forgot).
You'd think after a few years of using FreshDirect, I'd gain a better understanding that size really does matter. Apparently this isn't the case. With glee reserved for the incredibly lazy, I went about my business ordering all the ingredients necessary for a feast fit for a king. Potatoes, carrots, celery, macaroni, cheese, check check check check. All was good in Rick Town.
Then I came to the pot roast itself. I knew they shrink when you cook it. We wanted to get Chris fat. It was going to be three men at the table. We all love pot roast so we'd want seconds. I figured an eight pound roast should cover it no problem. So eight pounds it is and it was good.
The order arrived Saturday in the late morning and everything was there. I opened the boxes and sorted through the items, putting things together in the order in which I thought Joe needed them when he cooked. I'm pretty anal that way. And then I looked for the pot roast and realized it wasn't in the big boxes with everything else. Wierd. But there was a pretty sizeable box left on the counter that I hadn't gotten to yet. Due to the weight and size of the box, I figured it was the juice and soda so I didn't think I needed to get to it yet.
Opening the box, I found the pot roast. Did you know that eight pounds of meat is roughly the size of a three month old baby? Did you also know that a three month old baby, no matter how you try to squish it, doesn't fit into a slow cooker? Did you know that I didn't think, "Hey, I could cut this into two roasts, freeze one and use the other today for dinner?" Didn't occur to me.
In addition to the size issue, I also realized that if it can't be cooked in the slow cooker, Joe would get a deer-in-headlights look if he knew he'd have to use the stove top and oven to cook anything. Plus, if he were to attempt to use said kitchen appliance, he'd likely kill himself, the dog, the neighbors and most imporantly, me, in the process. I had visions of fire, large clouds of black smoke and front page news flitting about my noggin.
With a grumble and a bit of a pout, I told him that I'd cook dinner. He didn't have to worry about it. Joe was quite pleased, slow cooker notwithstanding. Plus, because I was going to need the stove top and the oven with the intention of tackling the child sized meat hunk, I didn't want to be bothered with the mac'n'cheese. The menu had just changed in front of my eyes, at my own doing, and I don't do well with change. The menu had become: Massive t-rex pot roast with a side of vegatbles, a mixed green salad with (get this) gorgonzola and white balsamic vinaigrette with a hint of pear nectar (foo foo right?) and horseradish mashed potatoes drizzled with white truffle oil and sprinkled with fleur de sel (french for fancy and really stupidly expensive salt that supposedly doesn't taste like salt but really does).
In a mood, I dropped the meat on the counter top, which in turn made the utensil canister, the strategically placed glass jars of pasta and rice, the dish drying wrack, the coffee maker and coffee holder thing all jump in unison. Seriously. The meat was that big.
I got everything together, looked at the clock and saw that it was 1:30 in the afternoon. Plenty of time to cook the pot roast in time for a leisurely early dinner. Browning the childmeat on all sides, prepping the veggies, getting things together I was in a groove. I asked Joe to get on the 'net to find out just how long the stupid bronto burger was going to take to cook so that I could figure out when to put together the salad, throw in the vegetables and whip up some mashed potatoes.
"It says seven hours!" Joe called from the study.
"What says seven hours?"
"The meat. It's going to take seven hours for it to cook," was his response. "Put the vegetables in the last hour so that they don't get mushy, but the meat part is going to take a long time. Do we have snacks?"
Of course, I didn't believe him so I had to look and prove myself completly wrong. Dinner wouldn't be ready until about 8:30 or so that night. So what do I do? Send Joe to the supermarket to pick up some snacks and goodies to tide the three of us over until dinner. As prevously mentioned, I sent him because I don't go there anymore with the incredible convenience that is friggin' internet grocery shopping. Got that? You with me? Shopping for groceries on the internet is a time saver. Say it a few times to yourself and you realize that you too can convince yourself.
With much muttering and sending Joe to the store twice more for things I decided we needed, like beer... for me... dinner was ready. Sure enough, at 8:30. And everyone was on the full side at that point, gorging themselves with nuts, chips and dip, crudite (if you're like me, you get all antsy when you see that last word in print and think "why doesn't that uppity turd just say vegetable platter with dip like the rest of us?"). And I was a little loopy from drinking too much beer (Bud, the breakfast of champions) which I had originally intended to use to calm myself down as a direct result of the giant-meat-fiasco 2007.
Nevertheless, dinner was served. Everything came out pretty darn good if you ask me. Strangely enough, eight pounds does in fact shrink quite a bit when you cook it. But here's a tip. It doesn't shrink THAT much. It's still plenty of food to fatten up your best friend and send him home with left overs, but it is way, way too much for three guys.
Anyone for leftovers?
I decided that we should whip up a pot roast in the slow cooker, put together a side of home made macaroni and cheese, a green salad and lots of fresh vegetables. I will admit that I carefully chose the menu because I knew Joe would be able to cook everything with little to no help from yours truly. I am usually the cook in the house but wanted to be a bum while Chris visited. He's MY best friend after all.
Not sure if any of you use internet grocery shopping. If not, and it's available in your neighborhood, do it! It's the single greatest invention since the La-Z-Boy recliner, the universal remote and pick-up/drop-off laundry service. I haven't had to go to the supermarket in several years now that I've discovered FreshDirect.
One word of warning, however. If you use internet shopping, know your weights and measures. Put them to memory, store them in your Palm Pilot, write them down and stick them on your bulletin board. Do something. Don't ever assume that because you grocery shop, you already know just how big or small something might be. In orders past, I had purchased oranges only to be graced with a giant bag of citrus fit for an orange banquet in Orangetown, USA during the Orange Festival. I had also purchased little odds and ends of nibbly things, with the intention of putting together an anti pasta platter for a brunch we were hosting, only to find that I had actually bought a paper thin wedge of cheese fit for a sandwich, a half dozen olives and a pepperoni stick fit for hitting grounders to left field. Joe had to go to the supermarket to buy enough that day (I sent him because I don't go there anymore with the advent of convenient internet grocery shopping in case you forgot).
You'd think after a few years of using FreshDirect, I'd gain a better understanding that size really does matter. Apparently this isn't the case. With glee reserved for the incredibly lazy, I went about my business ordering all the ingredients necessary for a feast fit for a king. Potatoes, carrots, celery, macaroni, cheese, check check check check. All was good in Rick Town.
Then I came to the pot roast itself. I knew they shrink when you cook it. We wanted to get Chris fat. It was going to be three men at the table. We all love pot roast so we'd want seconds. I figured an eight pound roast should cover it no problem. So eight pounds it is and it was good.
The order arrived Saturday in the late morning and everything was there. I opened the boxes and sorted through the items, putting things together in the order in which I thought Joe needed them when he cooked. I'm pretty anal that way. And then I looked for the pot roast and realized it wasn't in the big boxes with everything else. Wierd. But there was a pretty sizeable box left on the counter that I hadn't gotten to yet. Due to the weight and size of the box, I figured it was the juice and soda so I didn't think I needed to get to it yet.
Opening the box, I found the pot roast. Did you know that eight pounds of meat is roughly the size of a three month old baby? Did you also know that a three month old baby, no matter how you try to squish it, doesn't fit into a slow cooker? Did you know that I didn't think, "Hey, I could cut this into two roasts, freeze one and use the other today for dinner?" Didn't occur to me.
In addition to the size issue, I also realized that if it can't be cooked in the slow cooker, Joe would get a deer-in-headlights look if he knew he'd have to use the stove top and oven to cook anything. Plus, if he were to attempt to use said kitchen appliance, he'd likely kill himself, the dog, the neighbors and most imporantly, me, in the process. I had visions of fire, large clouds of black smoke and front page news flitting about my noggin.
With a grumble and a bit of a pout, I told him that I'd cook dinner. He didn't have to worry about it. Joe was quite pleased, slow cooker notwithstanding. Plus, because I was going to need the stove top and the oven with the intention of tackling the child sized meat hunk, I didn't want to be bothered with the mac'n'cheese. The menu had just changed in front of my eyes, at my own doing, and I don't do well with change. The menu had become: Massive t-rex pot roast with a side of vegatbles, a mixed green salad with (get this) gorgonzola and white balsamic vinaigrette with a hint of pear nectar (foo foo right?) and horseradish mashed potatoes drizzled with white truffle oil and sprinkled with fleur de sel (french for fancy and really stupidly expensive salt that supposedly doesn't taste like salt but really does).
In a mood, I dropped the meat on the counter top, which in turn made the utensil canister, the strategically placed glass jars of pasta and rice, the dish drying wrack, the coffee maker and coffee holder thing all jump in unison. Seriously. The meat was that big.
I got everything together, looked at the clock and saw that it was 1:30 in the afternoon. Plenty of time to cook the pot roast in time for a leisurely early dinner. Browning the childmeat on all sides, prepping the veggies, getting things together I was in a groove. I asked Joe to get on the 'net to find out just how long the stupid bronto burger was going to take to cook so that I could figure out when to put together the salad, throw in the vegetables and whip up some mashed potatoes.
"It says seven hours!" Joe called from the study.
"What says seven hours?"
"The meat. It's going to take seven hours for it to cook," was his response. "Put the vegetables in the last hour so that they don't get mushy, but the meat part is going to take a long time. Do we have snacks?"
Of course, I didn't believe him so I had to look and prove myself completly wrong. Dinner wouldn't be ready until about 8:30 or so that night. So what do I do? Send Joe to the supermarket to pick up some snacks and goodies to tide the three of us over until dinner. As prevously mentioned, I sent him because I don't go there anymore with the incredible convenience that is friggin' internet grocery shopping. Got that? You with me? Shopping for groceries on the internet is a time saver. Say it a few times to yourself and you realize that you too can convince yourself.
With much muttering and sending Joe to the store twice more for things I decided we needed, like beer... for me... dinner was ready. Sure enough, at 8:30. And everyone was on the full side at that point, gorging themselves with nuts, chips and dip, crudite (if you're like me, you get all antsy when you see that last word in print and think "why doesn't that uppity turd just say vegetable platter with dip like the rest of us?"). And I was a little loopy from drinking too much beer (Bud, the breakfast of champions) which I had originally intended to use to calm myself down as a direct result of the giant-meat-fiasco 2007.
Nevertheless, dinner was served. Everything came out pretty darn good if you ask me. Strangely enough, eight pounds does in fact shrink quite a bit when you cook it. But here's a tip. It doesn't shrink THAT much. It's still plenty of food to fatten up your best friend and send him home with left overs, but it is way, way too much for three guys.
Anyone for leftovers?
BTDT but it is much funnier reading about it happening to someone else. 
