Although I’m not usually one to cook anything, let alone multi-hour recipes, I was overwhelmed by the urge to do so when I saw the cover of the October issue of Martha Stewart Living which featured a pot pie. More pot pies were inside, and I decided to try making most of them–despite the fact that Martha will lie to you like a dog. For instance, the pot pies on the cover are “braised short rib, stout, and potato pot pies,” which the cover proclaims are Simple short rib pot pies! The recipe tells us that these will take thirty minutes “active time” and four hours and thirty minutes total time to make–all lies as well, by the way. Hey Martha, if you’re making something that takes over
four six hours to make, “simple” is not the word one uses to describe it.
As you can guess, “braised short rib, stout, and potato pot pies” are cooked (braised) in beer, a stout in this case. So this morning I went to get a bottle of stout from a diner that carries beer. As Elsie and I walked in, the hostess offered to seat us. Unsteadily, I looked her in the eye and said, “I’m just here to buy some beer.” She pointed the way. Then the person down in the cafe area asked if I needed help. “No,” I said. “I just need…some beer. That’s all. I know where it is.” I wanted to take back the last line. Maybe I shouldn’t know where it is. If I were a good mother, I wouldn’t.
Elsie tugged on my sleeve. “Can I get a cookie?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said, trying to deflect attention away from the beer, but then I felt like a teenager buying condoms and a ball point pen except worse. Buying beer for myself and cookies for my six year old made it all seem sadder.
As I was signing my charge slip, I felt the urge to say, “Look, I’m not doing anything wrong! This is for a pot pie! A wholesome, American pot pie! All the alcohol content will be cooked off! Stop judging me!”
Instead, I pushed the signed slip across the counter, refused to make eye contact with anyone else, and scurried Elsie out of the diner as quickly as possible.