Grandma Got Roasted

Yesterday smelled like a Sunday SHOULD smell.

Like a pot roast.

My wife has finally perfected the process of... well... roasting a pot roast.

This isn't a small detail.

It's a hard fought victory.

You see, for years we always tried to copy her mom's pot roast.

Should be easy.

Just follow what Grandma says.

In fact when she comes to visit, she comes packing some heat.

I mean meat.

A pot roast packing granny.

We celebrate.

She cooks.

We take notes.

We think we've got it.

And then she leaves.

We give it a try.

Whoops... that one's too tough.

Rats... that one's too dry.

"Hello, Mom? How do I do this?"

Man oh man. That one tastes like roadkill.

Kind of looks like it too.

Now... what IS a pot roast supposed to taste like?

We've forgotten.

But hope springs eternal.

Years go by.

And not too long ago, my wife gives it another try.

It's.... better.

And with each successive roast we close in on Grandma.

Don't worry.

She's been cheering us on since the very beginning.

She may pack some heat.

Make that.. MEAT.

But her heart has always been as tender as her roasts.

Well, after more than four hours in the oven yesterday, my wife pulled out two roasts.

Let's give this our best shot.

Double barrel no less.

We tasted.

We looked at each other.

We looked at the roasts.
(enter love music)

We agreed.

Even BETTER than Grandma's.

The taste of victory is sweet.

And so is the meat.

So when I dive into the leftovers for lunch today, I'll remember:

All of those failed attempts.

The great surprise of sudden success.

And the joy of knowing a special someone didn't mind being beaten at her own game.

There's a lesson in there somewhere, don't you think?