So yesterday, I decided to be a Good Mom. I would make dinner in the crockpot...a thick, hearty split pea soup. I chucked some split peas, carrots, onions, and beef bones into the crock, set it to low, and went along my merry way. Come suppertime, I took the crock off, pulled out the bones, and stuck the immersion blender in the pot to hide all the veggies before the kids got a look at it. Satisfied that there were no longer veggies in evidence, I set the soup on the table to cool and headed laundry-ward. Once the laundry was flipped, sorted, folded and piled, I meandered back to the kitchen to put the soup in the fridge. I closed the fridge door, wiped down the table, and I heard that Little Voice. "The soup was kind of solid, Wendy. What's up with that?" I stopped and considered. That Little Voice is pretty slick sometimes. I opened the fridge and inspected the Corningware cube o' soup. There probably weren't enough split peas in there to justify that level of solidity, so I revisited my ingredient list. Peas, water, onions, carrots...bones. Was it possible that---I darted to the freezer and inspected the remaining packages of bones. Glancing at the label, I confirmed my worst suspicions. And retched. "Bones for P'tcha," read the tidy white label.
Even the dog wouldn't touch it. (For the record, the dog will eat his own vomit. For fun.)
I am so grateful for that Little Voice. And, yes, we had pasta again.