Once upon a time there was content.

I don't remember much of any of it. Aside from finding a recipe today that I really want to try to make sometime I'm that insane. (And if I get my act together and get involved in the SCA again, I'll probably make it for a potluck feast or something. That sort of insane.)

This is now annwyd's fault:
( Return of the sadistic music meme, more sadistic than usual. )

There is one major problem with making a roast.

It starts smelling like dinner well before it's done.

Filling the house with tantalising juicy smells, roast overlaid with the hints of herbs. Memories of bay leaves, insinuations of thyme. . . .

I haven't even put in the potatoes to brown to golden perfection in the juices in the bottom of the pan, yet. They're cooling a little, waiting for me to cut them up and pour them into the pan around the meat.

It will torment me for probably another hour, roasting away quietly, taunting me with the richness of browning garlic and crisp onions.

Time is cruel, but it passes, and afterwards there will be dinner.