Getting Well Roasted

I embarked on an adventure of epic proportions yesterday evening aided by my faithful friend Olive and her wonderful warm personality. It was a quest to ensure that our ever present appetites were going to be satisfied and sated with an epicurean delight. A journey with an uncertain ending and traumatic hurdles to be overcome along the way. What in the world could I have been doing? I was, for the first time in my life, no, not journeying around the world in barefeet or balancing a camel on my nose or seeking to conquer the Guinness World Record for blowing bubbles but in fact was trying to become one of the elite, those who can cook a roast well. Hmmm… okay, so it doesn’t sound too exciting, right? But indeed it was an adventure involving several frantic phone calls to my maternal figure who sought to fill me with wisdom and confidence in this hither-to unventured realm of culinary skill. I remarked to Carina that indeed I would be a hopeless mission nurse since overseas phone calls cost a pretty penny and I couldn’t be ringing up every time – “Mom, I grew some yams, how do I cook them?” or “Mom, I just bought a goat, how do I go about milking it?” African Telecom would love me, I would probably single-handedly get whatever poor nation I was residing in out of debt in a fraction of the time that all their finance ministers would have planned. Okay, maybe I should go. I might be eligible for the Nobel Prize for Economy or something equally exciting. Anyhow, all logic aside, I will say that after much stressing and pulling hairs and furrowing my brow, the roast did turn out all right and we had a good meal last evening. Thanks to my fan club and supporters who were so loyal and supportive to me and thanks to my manager and all my friends and to Billy and Suzie and the little girl down the lane who received one bag of sheep wool….