in praise of my ladies brisket:

On finding salvation at the bottom of a Magic Pot

It had been another long day on the road with Ricky. I returned home to an empty house.

Dinner was mostly cold and on the stove.

The mashed potatoes had the enthusiasm of a bag of farts in a mud puddle.

The cabbage and carrots cooked Indian style looked as appetizing as a porta potty after a hot sauce festival.

But then I opened the Magic Pot. Within its digitally monitored confines I found a lump of brown that turned my frown upside down.

BEEF BRISKET!

And still warm.

A shudder of anticipation coursed through me.

Surrounding the beef was a puddle of spotty, oily joy.

Onto the plate went the bashed potatoes along with the vegetables of ennui.

And on top of all of that dilapidated mess went the au-jus from the Magic Pot.

All meat should be pulled I proclaimed to the cats.

The cats?

They ignored me.

But the beef called to me. Eat me, Jimmy! EAT ME!

I reached in, hauled out a hunk and shredded it above the potatoes, cabbage and carrots.

Pulled beef brisket, pulled pork, pulled chicken, pulled prai…