I am making food.

In the crockpot. Set on low. I have to STOP checking its progress. (Is it cooking yet? How about now? Now?)*

Here's a quiz (with imaginary prizes):

If left to my own eating devices, I would

a) Have a frozen dinner for just about every meal except the ones where someone else cooks
b) Die of malnutrition
c) Live on a giant batch of shepherd's pie.
d) Eat cake for almost every breakfast
e) Any and all of the above.

The answer is E, of course.

But you know what's funny, in a not funny-haha way? Every single solitary thing (book/story/whatever) I write has super descriptions of tasty treats (not just cake) and delicious recipes in them.  If pressed, could I actually make these recipes/foodstuffs?

Other people could. Me? Well...I have this whole following-directions problem, which kind of goes along with the shiny button syndrome.**

As I was falling asleep last night, I was thinking, "Hmmm...I could actually SHARE these things, these recipes with you all. And The Chef could help me make sure I'm not effing up big-time mid-creation."

What's that? You want to know what I'm making now? What would you say to Slow Cooker Brown Sugar Pork Loin? 



Get in mah belly. (Lousy pic, I know. I'll get you a mouth-watering one later!)



When The Chef emailed me the recipe yesterday, what I said was "This looks so good I want to have sex with it on the first date."  I know what you're thinking: Um, Penny, that (the food, not the sex) sounds fancy and direction-y. I KNOW! But two things:

1. The Chef prepped the meat last night
2. I only had to mix brown sugar with a few other things. When sugar's involved, I'm an idiot savant. (I love you, sugar.)

Plus another thing, which makes three things: slooooow cooker, whose motto should be I'll do all the work. You go relax--or perhaps GET BACK TO WORK! That book ain't going to write itself!

Is it done now? No.

More on this potentially-delish dish of deliciousness later, once full contact has been made with my mouth. Nom nom nom.

*Now?

**Latest episode? Yesterday I was taking clothes from the dryer and something--the phone ringing? a bunny hopping across the yard? an alien invasion?--something happened and I walked away from the task; aforementioned incomplete task was discovered by The Chef. Open bifold laundry doors. Open dryer. Clothes spilling onto the dryer door like they were trying to make an escape.

"What the...?" he started.

"It's best you don't ask," I told him. That's best for everyone.