[Boomer]

I try to encourage Mr. Boomer's presence in the kitchen. I like it when he wants to do the cooking. I have managed to convince him that the big mixer and the food processor are power tools. And I even tried to look impressed when he brought home some new knives that have some long German name that starts with a W.

But today, he really messed up a rump roast in the crockpot. Too done. Too done for either of us. Might even be too done for our geriatric dog.

Mr. Boomer would prefer beef -- oh, I don't know -- cooked by being waved over a couple of birthday candles. I, on the other hand, like it pink, maybe can even tend toward just a little red. We compromise.

But today, there is no compromise. This rump roast, that cost a blue fortune, came out beyond tough and dry. It was awful. I have some high-heel shoes that I do not wear much anymore that would have tasted better.

I just put it into the refrigerator. Pretending it will get an encore. (Garbage Eve is coming soon and I will sneak it out to the can at the curb, and then I will distract him so he forgets.)

Oh where did it all go so wrong?

I might have to break up with my crockpot.

Boomer