Ode to pot roast

Ever since a few days ago when my dear friend Jeni posted a blog featuring a delicious-looking pot roast she had cooked, I myself have been salivating for one. Though I’ve kept this fact to myself, somehow hubby read my mind. I came home from work tonight to a fragrant, meat-and-potatoes kitchen and was happy to see a piping hot pot roast pulled out of the oven. It was delectable – tender juicy meat, savory carrots, onions, and potatoes swimming in rich broth, crispy french bread to dip in the remaining jus. I devoured every last crumb in partial humiliation as hubby’s plate sat across the room still full of food. That’s how much I love pot roast.

Hubby's Tuesday night pot roast creation

My infatuation with this hearty dish goes way back. It is my #1 favorite dish of my mother’s. When I was growing up, my mom would make a feast of pot roast about once a month. Pot roast suppers far surpassed any others, although I did thoroughly enjoy her roasted turkey frozen dinners with mashed potato and gravy volcanoes.
The preparation for pot roast began early in the day. I can still smell the aroma of the contents of that giant steel pot simmering on the stove, in it one solitary bay leaf dancing in the frantic churning bubbles.
Beside the giant steel pot rested another equally important pot, holding the highly-anticipated Uncle Ben’s white rice. My mom’s rice is without a doubt the best rice in the entire world. Creamy, fluffy, plump grains coated in just enough butter and black pepper. Cooking rice always required a specific pot. This pot was not shiny and silver but instead brown and ecru striped, characterized by a curving lip at its top. This pot was straight from the ’70s and it was ONLY used for rice. Rice made in any other pot would have probably amounted to nothing short of tragic.
I would sneak peeks of the pot roast throughout the afternoon, impatiently awaiting my dinner, which would take place promptly at 5:30 pm. I don’t recall ever eating later than that. I even enjoyed plating my dish once we were called in for supper. Selecting the juiciest pieces of meat, watching it fall apart in front of me. Fishing for the biggest chunks of carrot. Pouring the sauce on my fluffy pile of rice. Every last bit of the process made this dish my favorite.
Though I dearly miss my mother’s preparation of the dish, I am ever grateful to have married a pot-roast-loving man. Especially one that can cook the dish well enough to evoke taste bud memories from an earlier time.