I was hanging around the meat case the other day, thinking about how much cheaper it would be to convert to veganism. A pleasant interruption from a mom and child duo reminded me I had meat to buy for dinner that night. I assessed the case as a purveyor of diamonds would do, finally latching onto a package of london broil chops with which to make fajitas. I would brush them with cumin, sea salt, cracked pepper, and garlic, with a few lime squeezes for acid.
But for now, my attention had been forced back to the mom and her child. She was standing at the foot of my cart, wielding a very small beef roast, apparently distressed about how to cook it. It was then that she asked me point-blank: “Do you know how to cook a roast?” Did she know I was Kaukab’s flesh-and-blood? I decided to give her a pass and delightfully offered her a resounding “Yes!”
While I did offer her some main recipe tips, I found myself walking about the aisles clicking off all the ingredients I couldn’t remember using in my own roast making. Like the wine. THE WINE! I thought about running after her, but I didn’t want to pose an artificial threat to the poor child, so I headed to the dairy aisle, instead.
Which is where I go when I’m not a vegan.