Warm Your Bellies With This Liquid Gold

About a year ago, after one of those I simply cannot stand you Sundays with Chris, we tromped into a Panera Bread where the mere thought of speaking with him about what I was going to order raised my blood pressure. In an attempt to send one of those I'm too angry to eat temper tantrums messages, I ordered a cup- not bowl, CUP- of tomato soup knowing I wouldn't like it and then could slam down my spoon, food uneaten, and glare at him while he consumed his Cuban sandwich.

Much to my surprise, I did like it! I did like tomato soup, Sam I am!

Since then, I've discovered that Costco makes a delicious version, only it leans on the salty side. I have tried a couple of homemade versions. Buttery ones. Creamy ones. Backyard herb garden basil-y ones. Even some with silly French cafe names. All were meh, but none that tickled me quite like that Panera Bread cupful.

Then THIS happened. And why I am surprised, I don't know. Of course Ina Garten would come up with a blue ribbon worthy version of such a simple, comforting meal.

Yes, I do recognize that the term "grilled cheese croutons" implies a certain amount of Laissez Faire-ness towards any sort of dietary consideration. But people! The winter months are upon us, the days are brief and cloudy, moods lethargic and anxious for something sparklier and more festive than the lingering days of Fall.

For a mere 4 cups of stock and just one simple can of San Marzano tomatoes, this recipe produces quite a lot of soup. And that orzo? OH, THAT ORZO! I questioned it initially, but it truly does change the landscape of something that could otherwise be consumed by straw. So fire up your giant soup spoon, folks, you're going to wish you had a shovel for this one!

In the very best of company

Although no company will be joining us for dinner tomorrow night, I've elected to re-visit Ina Garten's Company Pot Roast. And as I put the period at the end of that sentence, it is dawning on my tired and sort of drunk on red wine brain that DUH, STUPID! You should've invited your parents over for Sunday dinner!!

Ugh. Opportunity? See ya around the way again sometime, I guess.

This is, indeed, a meal meant for company. It isn't fancy or exceptionally WOWing in presentation. But I'll be damned, I don't like roast, I don't like one pot meals, and I love the crap out of this dish.

I've made it only once before and I distinctly remember Chris and I looking at one another from beneath Meat-Sweats-Brows and saying good Lord, is this filling!

It is, by no means, a standard pot roast. It is complex in flavor and involves no french onion soup packets or cream of condensed crap gravies. This is the only way to do pot roast. Period.

Yes, it takes a little doing. A little searing. A little thought. I sipped on a glass of wine before pouring a few into the dutch oven. Then I sipped on another as I joyfully tossed in the last of the fresh rosemary from my backyard garden. Yes, I know, you hate me and you badly wish you could be as exceptionally wonderful as me.

Please address that letter to my Commonlaw Husband, Chris, and remind him of how exceptionally wonderful women deserve sparkling gratitude.

We'll be feasting on this meal in the loving company of one another; mopping up the red wine and brandy-romatic gravy with homemade, harvest foccacia bread. Damnit, Pinterest, you've really forced all of us to up our games.

To you and your's and the pending Autumn weekend, Salute.

Parmesan Dreams

On Saturday morning, I woke up to nothing but the dog's ass facing me as he perched proudly atop Chris' pillow. Generally, I'm the first awake or awakened only moments after Chris and/or Snoop get up.

It's a Mom thing- the family stirs, the captain takes the helm.

After a continuation of our back-breaking but really awesome pace and busyness, I slept in until almost 8:00. If you, too, suffer from an extreme need to find reasons to create (and win) competitions with yourself over how many items on a To Do list you can pack into a 24 hour period, then you understand that 8:00am is the clock-watchers equivalent of DEATH.

I shuffled into the living room to find Chris snoozing peacefully on the couch. Nothing new- no, not new at all. There he laid, his hat tipped back and to the right, just the way it always does when he has dozed off. The TV was blaring- again, nothing new- but this time, oh THIS TIME, you guys, there on the screen was Ina Garten. The Barefoot Contessa herself.

There he was, unsuspectingly asleep and dreaming of simple recipes and quality ingredients. My infiltration was complete. No one in the world could be more meant for me.