There’s a roast in my house.
A raw one.
It’s sitting in my crisper drawer right now just freaking me out.
In an act that flagrantly opposes all my core peculiarities, I went to the store and spent $10 on a slab of meat for myself yesterday.
There’s the money issue… the ‘I don’t eat’ issue… the ‘I don’t eat what I cook’ issue…
Yeah, you get the unpleasant picture.
So, what the heck’s going on with the roast?
Bravery, I think. But, frankly, I’m too freaked out to know.