Sunday blew ass. It rained. How do I know this? B told me 94 times Friday through Saturday that it was going to rain. He was so concerned with the rain. B: You know it’s going to rain Sunday A:Yep I know. B: You know it’s going to rain Sunday A: Thanks again for telling me that B: You know it’s going to rain on Sunday A: I GOT IT. THANKS. This is something the elderly do yes? When they have nothing else to focus on? So yes, B was right, it rained and I was BORED. I did this for a while <————-
and then did this with my only friend. It was riveting.
But then I was thinking about B’s heartfelt letter to the world circa 1988 declaring his love for those who ‘cook good’…so being so awesome and loving, I cooked. I cooked a Brisket. I know. Wait, why am I capitalizing brisket? It’s not like it’s Mayor Brisket, or Brisket Spears or Capt. Von Brisket. It’s just a piece of meat. I guess my gut instinct to give respect to the meat was based on it’s command to me that I cook it for 10 hours. Talk about high maintenance meat. Then again, if I were meat, you know I’d be brisket…making you check in with me 10 times a day minimum, make sure I am sufficiently cared for, ensure I am at the right temperature and if you even think about not following my instructions to the letter, I will shrivel up and die and I’m taking you with me. You see why I don’t cook.
Yes I felt guilt. Let’s face it, B is good stuff. I mean he buys me shoes. That’s enough to stop my heart right there. And he took me to dinner on Saturday and only like 12% judged me when I ordered the burger. He was all…you usually only eat one half and give me the other half. WOAH buddy. Rule# 1 in eating with a female: Never express opinions or quantity, fat content or going to the gym prior (or lack there of). We’ll hold it against you for a good 4 weeks post date. Back to B’s good stuff. He’s good. So my peaceful loving sparkle side said, Amanda, cook this man a brisket. It’s what the jews would do. And since I had catholic guilt about being a bad wife, what better way to fix it than with a jew solution? I know. Genius.
I got the recipe from the blog, Smitten Kitchen, mostly because she says bad words and has pretty pictures. You can talk about the growth rate of slugs on your blog, but if you’re a foul mouthed photographer, I’m all in. So it’s bright and early and I have the salt bloats from that stupid burger THAT I ATE ALL OF and I’m squinting at this meat like, I’m not scared. I’ll take you down meat. You think you’re high maintenance? Meat your match meat hunk. And it did.
It’s all kind of a blur but it involved browning, scraping, boiling down (or up?), concocting, cursing and then casting a secret spell that was like this: pleasepleasepleaseplease not taste like a cat butt. And then it was done. GO MEAT. I know you’re all, wait…where is the big catastrophe where she sets shit on fire or throws meat at B? BUT take that, there is none.
B loved it and said what a super wonderful wife I am ( I totally am) and I have wife credits built up now for like 1 marriage semester (I’m saving them up for a big ticket item). But my friends, I can’t take credit for this on my own. I have a secret side dish that makes even the worst pants hole slop crap taste better.
I have to thank my friend who really brought it all together in the end. With him around, everything tastes good. Heart you friend.