Aged Prime Rib

I know I'm not posting very often right now, but truth be told, it's been so crazy with me working evenings and dealing with the two kids during the day that when I do have a free minute when I could potentially write something, odds are I'm sitting on the couch staring catatonically at the wall rather than doing something productive. But, Isaac is sleeping right now, Mac is eating and I'm just starting the feel the effects of the caffein buzz (Thank you Peppermint mocha.... thank you!) so I wanted to share this.

I just want to preface this story by saying that I am NOT ragging on my husband for this. Nine times out of ten, when things happen here it is because my brain is a child-induced sieve and I can't retain anything. But still, this is funny.

The other day I decided I wanted to do something special for my husband. He works hard, he's not a complainer and he never (except for the one time) complains when I feed him weird stuff from a recipe I found here or there. I decided to dig out the prime rib I had in the freezer and make him a nice (normal) roast and mashed potatoes.

Well, I guess the roast wasn't totally thawed out (which blows my mind because it was thawing all night and all day) because it cooked really unevenly and not very well at all. The potatoes were done waaaaay before the roast was so by the time we sat down to eat, the potatoes were cold, the roast was the most horrible I've ever made and I had fifteen minutes to eat before I had to leave for work.  I did as much cleaning as possible while I was cooking, but I was resigned to coming home at 10:30 to a messy kitchen which I would have to clean the following day.

Imagine my surprise (and pleasure) when I got home and the kitchen was spotless. If I hadn't been so tired, I think I would have done a happy dance.

The next day I was cooking supper and started looking around for my big pot. I checked the drawer under the stove where it belongs and it wasn't there. I checked the drying rack on the counter. No joy. I checked the fridge. Nothing. I stood there scratching my head wondering where it could be... and then a thought occurred to me. No way, I thought. That's not possible. I opened the stove and sure enough, there was the pot, with the rest of the roast sitting inside it.

Because the middle must have still been frozen when I put it in the oven, when it came time to cut it for serving, the middle was still raw and blood had gotten all over the counter. I don't know if he just put it in the oven while he was cleaning off the counter and forgot about it or what.  I know we had talked about just throwing it out because it was so nasty, but I guess he thought I was gonna do it, and I thought he HAD done it and all that time it had been in the oven.

People, this is what parenting does to your brain.

Isn't aging meat something that chef's do?? I'll just claim that's what we were trying to do...
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