Sometimes, I look at vegetarians, and I think, yeah, they've got it right. Not because of the respect they have for animals. No ma'am, any look into the eyes of a cow will tell you it's too dumb for anything but delicious eating. It's because they're usually gloriously skinny (the vegetarians, not the cows. Cows are fat and eatable). Let's face it, though. If I were a vegetarian, I'd live mostly off of chips and I'd be anemic and they wouldn't accept my blood at the donor clinic.
Anyway, Joel and I (not being vegetarian) but a hunk of cheap ribs from the store. This day marking the third month since our nuptuals, we are celebrating by drownding those ribs in BBQ sauce and making them sit in the slow cooker and think about what they've done. We should have perhaps picked a day to do this when we weren't going to be around all day, because the smell is insufferable. Joel finally gave up and went to the library, but I'm still here surrounded by a nearly tangible BBQ cloud. The smell makes me want to eat things, but if I eat things, then I wont be able to enjoy the true glory of the meat (meat which I just poked with the poking fork, and which is falling off the bone).
The idea of throwing food into a pot and coming back at the end of the day to a prepared meal is right up there with the invention of penicillin. I mean it. We got this fabulous crock pot from Joel's aunt and uncle, and I almost want to write it into my will, I love it so much. If I love it this much now, in decidedly non-crock-pot-y weather (hee hee, potty), think of how much I'll be raving about it in the dreary days of November! Prepare for a number of stew-based posts, world!
The countdown to RIB is 28 minutes. I told Joel that if he wasn't home by four, I'd eat his share. He countered that if I ate his ribs...and then growled around for an appropriate response for a minute before telling me that if I ate his ribs, he'd slice me open and eat mine. Please. They wont even taste good.