Chicken

Things are looking up. Two more days of stew and I will be done with it. I made pumpernickel bread and lathered with butter it makes the stew palatable. Stew does not freeze well. I cannot give it to the neighbors because if I walk out of the house carrying a pot, I hear dead bolts crashing all over the neighborhood. They are all French and are convinced that a barbarian from Sweden cannot possibly make anything edible and there is always the possibility that there is Lutefisk in the pot. The barbarian also has Irish roots and we all know about the Irish cookbook. There is only one recipe in it: Bring three gallons of water to a boil.
Throw all of the food in the water.
Drink beer until the water is all gone.
I have a chicken defrosting in the refrigerator. Soon there will be roast chicken, mashed potatoes, carrots, green beans, stuffing. and biscuits. And then, glory of all glories, there will be chicken stock to make. Escoffier was right, without stock there is no cooking. When I die, I would like the stockpots and the Kitchenaid buried with me. I always thought I would be buried with the wool hat and sweater but I buried Rosie in them. Sad memory that still hurts.