A crock.

Here's the magical, not so revolutionary thing about crock pots: you throw a bunch of crap in them, run away for a bunch of hours, and then come back to deliciousness. It's like stone soup. Kind of.

My problem is getting motivated to throw the crap in. And buy the crap. And look up recipes so I know what kind of crap to buy. One of the many stereotypical things I struggle with as a single girl in a major metropolitan area is how accessible take-out is. If I were the type to swing bats, I could demolish five or six restaurants in one swing without ever leaving my bed. And the last incident we had with this crock pot ended with what seemed like forty pounds of chili being chucked down and ultimately choking our wheezy garbage disposal. Chipotle does not result in a week of haphazardly self-plumbing a clogged sink and doing your dishes in the bathtub, that's for sure.

But the past five days of rain have put me in a mood for stew. Granted, I wake up today, Stew Day, and L.A. is back to normal with the blue sky and the sunshine and the crows blasting their sweet, sweet melodies with extra vigor. But still, it is January, and winter is a time for stew in other parts of the world.

I think I'll call this one boeuf bourguinon, in light of my recent random decision to be as Francais as possible at all times. I blame the rain, it's just so conducive to Edith Piaf and cafe lattes avec le pain au chocolat. Magnifique, non?