Pork roast for Sunday dinners, all the time with carrots and potatoes. Yup, we’d roll back after Sunday school to all those herb smells and set the table extra pretty.
My mom makes the best roast. I wish I were as great a cook as she, but I’m not. Roast is one of my favorite meals. I love it with gravy and mashed potatoes. And bread. Always bread. It’s also kind of easy to make if you use a crockpot. Those are the best meals.
“What sort of roast even /is/ this?” muttered Jess, poking the still-steaming mound of meat with one finger. “Doesn’t look like anything else I’ve seen.”
“I think it might be tofu,” I stage-whispered, leaning over the empty chair to talk to her. “Partially tofu, at least. Tofu and goat. Maybe some kangaroo.”
“What’s the point of tofu if you’re not even vegetarian?” She squinted earnestly, pretending to ponder the question.
“Damned if I know,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m not the one in charge here.”
beef is a real thing – don’t fuck with pretending its not. there are physiological effects of that beef – you’ll know it when it hits your system. i’m not kidding. roast beef is not a dream
I had it all planned. I would make a roast beef dinner, complete with mashed potatoes, gravy and rolls. It would be perfect. The perfect dinner to make the anniversary of saying those magic words to each other. “I love you.”
Thanksgiving dinner has always been a staple in my house growing up. We would never eat at our house though, always leaving to enjoy the dinner at a grandparents. They would make delicious food, including ham, sweet potato casserole and the most delicious roast to top it all off. Family would gather and everyone would be happy to share the year’s experiences and stories with one another.
roast chicken was cooking in the kitchen while the mistress spent time with her children. Her long white dress shone under the sun, the chicken’s smell filled the whole house. She raised her her head and sighed, worrying about something.
Something she wishes not to tell any one.
She watches as her children, their innocent faces. The chicken is almost ready. She wiped her hands on her dress and went to get the chicken.
I remember the roasted texture of the firewood set underneath the hearth, blazing and crackling with crisp echoes. I never thought I could still taste the ice from outside the frosted windowsills, in spite of the fire in front of me. The blizzard constantly blowing away all of Herville didn’t seem to stop any moment.
I can smell it. It is smoldering, like coal burning in the oven. The train of my mind is motivated by it’s scent. The thing is deep inside me and it’s curious. Overall it is a symbol, but slowly the soul is roasting.
“No thank you, m’lord.” Angelina smiles warmly at the handsome duke sitting across the table from her, cheeks flushes the lightest shade of pink. Daintily dabbing the corners of her mouth with the napkin beside her plate, she sips a bit of red wine before looking back up at him. “How was the archery competition yesterday? Did you have fun?”
He laughs brightly, blue eyes shining. “Yes, quite. But it would’ve been much more fun had you been there with us, Angelina.”
The young woman blushes. Oh, the effect he had on her…
The honey moon was over. They were in there new home and he was coming home from work, Monday evening.
“Smells like heaven in here, beautiful,” he said coming in the door joining the kitchen and the garage. He walked over and caught her up with a big swoop, and gave her a kiss.
” I hope your hungry because I made a feast. There is roast, rolls, mashed potatoes, salad, green beans and apple pie and ice cream. Now go wash up and we can get started,” she said.
I once helped my grandpa roast a Pork tenderloin. After it was done it was delishous. I ate half of it! My mom got some and so did my grandma…..and grandpa too.
I wish I was a 1950s housewife that never had to leave the house
I wish I was a housewife
making a big fat roast,
I’d be smoking,
twirling around in my fancy skirt,
I wish I was a housewife
and didn’t always have to think about work.
When that was okay,
to be,
just that.
Best word in the world especially when thinking about roast garlic, well roast pretty much anything. If it’s not tied down I’m gonna roast it. Cooking is my best friend among the non-human types and has made life that much more worth living, better than anything that I could have imagined. Everyone has their zen moment and this one is mine.
I love roast beef, as well as a lot of thing’s roasted. roasted almonds, roasted peanuts. I like fried things more however, even candy bars and cookies. Bacon is delicious. Mike Tyson’s roast was good but not the same thing.
The smell of the roast fills the house as we enter after church. I always loved coming home when my mom is making roast for lunch. It makes my mouth water as I anticipate the food that is to come.
The smell of roast now reminds me of the wonderful time I had growing up and the joys of childhood.
I flip my heart in the heat of the roasting grill, taking precise care to have every inch of it toast, making exactly sure to stop its intense beating, and its constant beration.
The memory of our grandma’s
roasts, in our oven in Sunday
afternoons. Good conversation,
little tastes of beef and an
overall feeling of belonging. Later
on in life you realize what
you no longer have. And, you may
never have a sense of
belonging, as you once did.
She inhaled the glorious scent of rosemary, roasted onions, and crispy-skinned chicken. “Mmmmm,” she hummed. Her eyes closed in reverie as she imagined just how tasty her dinner would be.
The phone rang. She snapped out of her moment of bliss and walked toward the yellow phone.
Pork roast for Sunday dinners, all the time with carrots and potatoes. Yup, we’d roll back after Sunday school to all those herb smells and set the table extra pretty.
My mom makes the best roast. I wish I were as great a cook as she, but I’m not. Roast is one of my favorite meals. I love it with gravy and mashed potatoes. And bread. Always bread. It’s also kind of easy to make if you use a crockpot. Those are the best meals.
“What sort of roast even /is/ this?” muttered Jess, poking the still-steaming mound of meat with one finger. “Doesn’t look like anything else I’ve seen.”
“I think it might be tofu,” I stage-whispered, leaning over the empty chair to talk to her. “Partially tofu, at least. Tofu and goat. Maybe some kangaroo.”
“What’s the point of tofu if you’re not even vegetarian?” She squinted earnestly, pretending to ponder the question.
“Damned if I know,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m not the one in charge here.”
beef is a real thing – don’t fuck with pretending its not. there are physiological effects of that beef – you’ll know it when it hits your system. i’m not kidding. roast beef is not a dream
roasting my heart
spinning and drooling
like a dog in heat
I pluck the chords
of your voice with a snarl
I had it all planned. I would make a roast beef dinner, complete with mashed potatoes, gravy and rolls. It would be perfect. The perfect dinner to make the anniversary of saying those magic words to each other. “I love you.”
Thanksgiving dinner has always been a staple in my house growing up. We would never eat at our house though, always leaving to enjoy the dinner at a grandparents. They would make delicious food, including ham, sweet potato casserole and the most delicious roast to top it all off. Family would gather and everyone would be happy to share the year’s experiences and stories with one another.
roast
roast chicken was cooking in the kitchen while the mistress spent time with her children. Her long white dress shone under the sun, the chicken’s smell filled the whole house. She raised her her head and sighed, worrying about something.
Something she wishes not to tell any one.
She watches as her children, their innocent faces. The chicken is almost ready. She wiped her hands on her dress and went to get the chicken.
I remember the roasted texture of the firewood set underneath the hearth, blazing and crackling with crisp echoes. I never thought I could still taste the ice from outside the frosted windowsills, in spite of the fire in front of me. The blizzard constantly blowing away all of Herville didn’t seem to stop any moment.
roast beef. I love roast beef. but what are those words. i would prefer like dog or sky but roast ??? uhm yeah roast beef is food and food is life.
A grilled cheese sand witch is sometimes roasted.
I can smell it. It is smoldering, like coal burning in the oven. The train of my mind is motivated by it’s scent. The thing is deep inside me and it’s curious. Overall it is a symbol, but slowly the soul is roasting.
“Fancy some more roast duck, Angelina?”
“No thank you, m’lord.” Angelina smiles warmly at the handsome duke sitting across the table from her, cheeks flushes the lightest shade of pink. Daintily dabbing the corners of her mouth with the napkin beside her plate, she sips a bit of red wine before looking back up at him. “How was the archery competition yesterday? Did you have fun?”
He laughs brightly, blue eyes shining. “Yes, quite. But it would’ve been much more fun had you been there with us, Angelina.”
The young woman blushes. Oh, the effect he had on her…
The honey moon was over. They were in there new home and he was coming home from work, Monday evening.
“Smells like heaven in here, beautiful,” he said coming in the door joining the kitchen and the garage. He walked over and caught her up with a big swoop, and gave her a kiss.
” I hope your hungry because I made a feast. There is roast, rolls, mashed potatoes, salad, green beans and apple pie and ice cream. Now go wash up and we can get started,” she said.
The smell of a roast fills the air.
What could it be?
Chicken?
Pig?
Cow?
I have no clue. And I can’t see it, either. I have yet to eat anything but stale bread and crackers since Mother put me down here.
I once helped my grandpa roast a Pork tenderloin. After it was done it was delishous. I ate half of it! My mom got some and so did my grandma…..and grandpa too.
I wish I was a 1950s housewife that never had to leave the house
I wish I was a housewife
making a big fat roast,
I’d be smoking,
twirling around in my fancy skirt,
I wish I was a housewife
and didn’t always have to think about work.
When that was okay,
to be,
just that.
Roast is my favorite simply because I love meats.
Roast is my favorite kinds of meat simply because I love meat.
Best word in the world especially when thinking about roast garlic, well roast pretty much anything. If it’s not tied down I’m gonna roast it. Cooking is my best friend among the non-human types and has made life that much more worth living, better than anything that I could have imagined. Everyone has their zen moment and this one is mine.
I love roast beef, as well as a lot of thing’s roasted. roasted almonds, roasted peanuts. I like fried things more however, even candy bars and cookies. Bacon is delicious. Mike Tyson’s roast was good but not the same thing.
The smell of the roast fills the house as we enter after church. I always loved coming home when my mom is making roast for lunch. It makes my mouth water as I anticipate the food that is to come.
The smell of roast now reminds me of the wonderful time I had growing up and the joys of childhood.
I flip my heart in the heat of the roasting grill, taking precise care to have every inch of it toast, making exactly sure to stop its intense beating, and its constant beration.
“How’s the roast looking?”
Meryl batted her son away.
“It’ll look a lot better if you stop badgering me,” she huffed.
“I’m only trying to help,” Sean insisted, which prompted quite a laugh from the older woman.
“You’re trying to spoil your dinner. Go watch the girls like you’re supposed to be doing.”
The memory of our grandma’s
roasts, in our oven in Sunday
afternoons. Good conversation,
little tastes of beef and an
overall feeling of belonging. Later
on in life you realize what
you no longer have. And, you may
never have a sense of
belonging, as you once did.
She inhaled the glorious scent of rosemary, roasted onions, and crispy-skinned chicken. “Mmmmm,” she hummed. Her eyes closed in reverie as she imagined just how tasty her dinner would be.
The phone rang. She snapped out of her moment of bliss and walked toward the yellow phone.