I am woman. . . hear me roar OR. . . .Is that you that I smell?

This morning, while those with good sense were still sleeping . . . . I pulled myself out of bed, down the stairs and into the kitchen where. . .

I prepared a beef roast in the crockpot.

Now, I know that this may have shaken some of you up; some of you because I actually handled meat and others because I seemingly assembled ingredients into what might be considered a meal. The world is not coming to an end. Bill Clinton did not admit to relations; "Veronica Mars" was not put back on the air; and I am certain that no one in my family has uttered, for the first time in our 100-year history in this land, "I was wrong"; I just decided to cook. Nothing more, nothing less.

All I can do is offer you the solace in the fact that I suspect this will never happen again and caution you not to get too excited. . . . we haven't actually tasted it yet.

What makes this even better is that last night I finished a project involving large amount of wool yarn. After three trips through the washer/felting process, I placed the wet woolen object on the counter in the kitchen where I blocked and shaped it for drying.

Now that might not seem very significant to you, but I promise that if you were at my house today, between the smell of a very onion-esque cooking roast and pungent wet wool, you'd rethink the whole "work from home" idea.

Sorry, Cynical.

Tomatoes post watering. We have yet to get a ripe one.