Dinner with the advisor

My mother decided that it would be a good idea for Ken and I to meet her financial advisor. She wants us to be in the loop so that we can give her second opinion on money matters. Past experience has left her almost phobic with regard to any type of investment. So she invited us over to share a dinner.

The advisor is an Israeli woman in her early 60's. She's not an orthodox Jew, but observant enough to keep strictly kosher, which results in a lot of dietary restrictions. One of the rules of kosher meat is that it may not have any blood on or in it, so don't expect your Jewish pals to order their steak rare.

At 7:00 pm sharp, my mom grunted as she heaved a roasting pan out of the oven. It contained a roast beef as big around as an ancient redwood trunk. She said, "I hope this is done! The butcher told me not to leave it in for more than two and a half hours or it would get tough."

I eyeballed the enormous roast. I'm no chef, but even a single chicken breast takes an hour to bake through at 350 degrees. There's no way that roast could be well done in two and a half. But I didn't say anything. Too late now, anyway.

My mom asked Ken to carve the meat while she put the finishing touches on some side dishes. Meanwhile, I sat at the table with our guest, making conversation. Later my mom told me what I'd missed back in the kitchen.

Ken cut into the roast, which was, of course, almost raw in the middle. My mom held her face in her hands and panicked. They had a quick, whispered strategy session. It was decided that Ken would carve the roast in concentric layers, like peeling an onion, rather than slicing the roast all the way through. That way the most cooked meat could be served and the rest would be sent back into the oven to finish the job.

Ken cut enough meat to fill the smallest serving platter in the kitchen. Even after his best efforts, much of the meat on the plate was quite rare. They set to dabbing at it with paper towels to blot up any traces of pinkish juice. Apparently by this time my mom was having giggling fits.

Finally the platter was brought out to the dining room. There were only two pieces of meat that were well done in any sense of the phrase, and these were the two very ends of the roast. I helped myself to pinkish meat, which I wouldn't ordinarily choose, in case our guest decided that she wanted to go back for seconds. In the end, the crisis was averted.

After my mom told me this story as I was washing the dishes, I asked her what possessed her to get such a big roast for just the four of us. "So that you could take home the leftovers!" she said, like, why else? My mom likes to feed me. Apparently I need several pounds of roast beef to get me through next week. Hey, I'm not complaining. I'm lucky to have my mom looking after me like she does.

So, does anyone want to come over for roast beef sandwiches? I have fancy mustard!