The Pot Roast

I carried the pot roast in from the car to the house, but stopped near the door. A puddle of salty slush had formed at the bottom of the driveway from snowmelt in the warm February sun. Water was running off the roof and off the snow-covered gardens, but as a consequence of winter's cold, the heaving of the ground the edge of the pavement had lifted and resulted in a bit of a dam. The puddle itself was about 3 foot square and no more than an inch deep at its deepest.

I normally deal with this classic, recurring puddle by taking a snowshovel (three of which are always propped against the garage door) and shoving the water off the edge of the driveway. It's fast and effective and it sprays the yard with salty, dirty water.

I grabbed a nice wide snow-pusher and holding the shovel in my right hand (and holding the 3lb roast in my left hand) gave the shovel a single, tremendous shove. Most of the water shot through the air. To get one last enormous, depleting, emptying, draining, clearing, cleaning shove in, I needed both hands. Unwilling to let go of the roast, I pressed it against the handle of the shovel with my left hand and with both hands firmly holding something, gave another shove. The blade of the shovel struck ice.

The plastic around the roast tore against a screw in the shovel handle as the roast slid forward and went flying, trailing a crimson blood stream. The roast bounced across the snow and ice in a slushy stream of water, salt and road dirt that washes off the cars and came to rest on top of the sewer grate, toward which I had shoved the water.

We don't have too many choices in this world, regardless of what anyone says. We're having it for dinner tonight and I'm sure it'll taste great. I'm thinking this'll just be my little secret.