First, that roast?
Perfection. The long, slow cooking really made the cinnamon pop. When I lifted the crockpot lid, that’s what I smelled first. Ruby and I fished the potato that I’d chopped up and put under the roast in the crockpot out and ate it for a late lunch. Mmmm. Really, just mmmm.
I shredded the meat, put it back into the incredible sauce, and served it over rice. Then I made Kevin hold it up for a picture.
He’s not a real sauce guy. Me? I ladled that delectable stuff on until I basically had roast beef and rice mole soup.
Mushroom soup? Who needs it?
Yes. It would have been a perfect food night if I hadn’t glutened myself after dinner.
The hardest part about going gluten-free is not giving up pizza or BLTs or bagels and cream cheese or banana cream pie.
The hardest part is making yourself sick without even getting to eat any of those things.
Like when you pop a piece of left-over Christmas stocking chocolate in your mouth without even thinking about it. You savor the melty feeling on your tongue, then bite into the crispy crunchies inside. And fifteen minutes later, you feel it. Like a blanket being pulled up from your feet. Exhaustion. Gas. Headache.
The unholy trinity.
I will get this right. I will. Even if it means scouting out all the gluten in my house and praying that the person who picks it up at the food bank doesn’t have the same problem I do. I will.