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We live in my dream house. For all its warmth and character and closet-space-less-ness, it's truly the home of my dreams. (I've got a biiiiig tantrum brewing for the day the military moves us away from this wonderful place.) While all we really needed was three stone walls and a hole to crawl in & out, (and perhaps some bat repellent), we decided to opt for something *slightly* more luxurious and went for a more modern – yet modest – home to start our married life together. We can see the TV from almost every room and the Primal Pooch has a nice, fenced in yard to destroy. My life is truly blissful. What else could one ask for?
Okay, I suppose we've had just a few MINOR problems:
An estimate on a sewer line repair equal to the cost of my college education;
Mysterious, sudden infestations of crickets, grasshoppers, and/or slugs that respond only to force (ie heavy books thrown from 6 feet away);
And last, the unpredictable antics of intriguingly antiquated kitchen appliances.
I was never much of a cook before the CaveHusband, but our relationship grew through the adventure of cooking together. This was a time when I needed repeated reminders on how to a) boil water; b) cook chicken; and c) scramble eggs. As we became committed to the “Paleo/Primal” way of life, however, I realized that I needed to get a clue – and fast.
So right after we moved in, I began getting to know my kitchen. The petite gas range/oven became my ally – the only oven I'd ever known. Like Navin Johnson's scrappy canine sidekick, I decided to name her Sh*thead. (Because things didn't always go so well, and I blamed her lack of cooperation.) Sh*thead and I went through a lot together. So when she finally kicked the bucket last week, I was a little upset.
Until I realized she'd been playing me all along.
The delivery guys who brought me my new unit didn't hesitate to let me know that I'd been cooking with a half-broken, gas-leaking, pre-historic version of what the gas range evolved into some time around 1955. I was basically using the cooking equivalent of Maurice's woodchopping machine.
Rather than put my feelings into song, I wasted no time getting to know my new-age gadget. And guess what? I don't suck at cooking. It isn't a randomly successful, often disastrous kitchen exercise. There's actually rhyme & reason to it – a fact that escaped me during Sh*thead's tenure with us. So to honor this fantastic turn of events, I've been roasting, roasting, roasting my days away.
I roasted a small pasture-raised chicken with food/wine genius K. Muir's advice: Lemon, garlic, ghee inside & out, thyme, and a touch of white wine.
My winter love interest is roasted butternut squash. I found a post on Cavemen Gourmet that combined BS with more BS – Butternut Squash with Brussels Sprouts. Brilliant!
I peeled the B Squash with a vegetable peeler, cut into chunks, and tossed with ghee and a dab of maple syrup (I know, sugar. Sue me.) I did the same with the B Sprouts and set them to roastin' at 400 degrees for 30 minutes while the bird cooled. Yup, we like our roasted veggies with just a touch of oxidative damage. (Whatevs, nothing a little Acai berry can't fix, right?) The burnt-er, the better.
(That Acai thing was a joke.)
Make this. Make it NOW.
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