Salisbury Steak Recipe from the internet

SLOW COOKER SALISBURY STEAK

8

 

20 MINUTES

 

4 HOURS 30 MINUTES

 

4 HOURS 50 MINUTES

For beef patties:

2 pounds ground beef

5 garlic minced

2 whole eggs

⅓ cup breadcrumbs

4 tablespoons finely chopped parsley

1 tablespoon worcestershire sauce

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoons black pepper

4 cups thinly sliced cremini mushrooms

2 bay leaves

For gravy:

4 tablespoons butter melted

4 tablespoons all purpose flour

2 cups no sodium beef broth

1 tablespoon lemon juice

1 teaspoon seasoned salt

Combine ground beef, egg, garlic, breadcrumbs, 2 tablespoons chopped parsley, 1 tablespoon worcestershire sauce, 1 teaspoon salt, 1 teaspoon black pepper. Make 8 (4 ounce) patties. Arrange in a 6-quart slow cooker.

Spread mushrooms and bay leaves on top of patties.

To make gravy: In a bowl whisk together melted butter and flour to form a paste. While whisking, gradually add in beef broth to avoid lumps. Add in lemon juice, seasoned salt then mix.

Cook on low for 7 hours or on high for 4 hours and 30 minutes.

Garnish with remaining 2 tablespoons of parsley.

Tip: For a thicker sauce add in 2 tablespoons of cornstarch to flour.

The Come Apart revised

The Come-Apart

It seems to be about the tag. It gets
more illuminated than the thought at times.
On this ordinary night, doing the ordinary

thing we do, we calculate who will be
chopped and who will remain to claim
victory on a show we watch. Invariably,

Molly decides to stand directly in front
of me on the huge purple ottoman I bought
with her in mind. Sometimes, I get pissed

that she won't sit down, allow me to watch
the expected stream of innocuous competition
which steadies me in my most difficult times.

Tonight, as a competitor took her knife
to the soft underbelly of an unknown white
fish, my eyes were fixated on the rabies

tag dangling from my big red dog's collar--
bone-shaped--reflecting light from the television,
from the lamp purchased in the middle of what

I thought was the end. It was after my father's
death and before Molly came to live with us,
love us, destroy the us-ness of this house, bestow

upon us her dog-love thing, slobber and chewing
a constant proverbial pain in the ass, a reminder
of what it takes to love when everything you know

has been obliterated, and all of love as you ever
knew it is perpetually at risk. The measure of all
of your remaining days becomes more real than

ever imagined in the light of great loss; a token
of belonging hanging from my dear dog's neck
becomes the angst my heart wishes to shy from,

to retreat, to escape to parts unknown as it weighs
out the inevitable odds attached to losing a beloved,
wearing jeans or a shiny signet of love unfettered.

The Come-Apart

The Come-Apart

It seems to be about the tag. It gets
more illuminated than the thought at times.
On this ordinary night, doing the ordinary

thing we do, we calculate who will be
chopped and who will remain to claim
victory on a show we watch. Invariably,

Molly decides to stand directly in front
of me on the huge purple ottoman I bought
with her in mind. Sometimes, I get pissed

that she won't sit down, allow me to watch
the expected stream of innocuous competition
which steadies me in my most difficult times.

Tonight, as a competitor took her knife
to the soft underbelly of an unknown white
fish, my eyes were fixated on the rabies

tag dangling from my big red dog's collar--
bone-shaped, reflecting light from the television,
from the lamp purchased in the middle of what

I thought was the end. It was after my father's
death and before Molly came to live with us,
love us, destroy the us-ness of this house, bestow

upon us her dog-love thing, slobber and chewing
a constant proverbial pain in the ass, a reminder
of what it takes to love when everything you know

has been obliterated, and all of love as you ever
knew it is constantly at risk. The measure of all
of your remaining days becomes more real than

ever imagined in the light of great loss, a token
of belonging hanging from your dear dog's neck
becomes the angst the heart wishes it could shy

from, retreat, call a truce as it weighs out the
inevitable odds attached to the life of any you love.

My response to a thread on Bevin getting bitten by a horse

Ken Prophater I say screw him but wish him no ill will. I can't go there. I can't tell you how much I detest the Cheetoh head in power of this country, and I wish he were not in power and wish he would go away and just vanish--like a fart in the wind (to quote The Shawshank Redemption), but I do not wish harm on him. My anger comes from the great injustices done to those most in need who are affected by Bevin and Cheetohhead's ridiculous and uneducated beliefs. I have spent my life helping those in need, and I can see where programs to continue to provide much needed help are on the chopping block. Neither of these (I can't call them humans as they appear to have no inkling of an idea of what it is to be human) characters have a concept of what is happening to so many marginalized, poor, falling-on-hard-times, struggling people. They pretend and go home to their million dollar environs and fancy clothes and dream worlds. It's very sad, to say the least.

Note: I am only posting this as a matter of record. Jeez, I feel Big Brother is everywhere and I can't say anything for fear of someone coming in and arresting me!

Spring Unpleasant

Spring Unpleasant

Twitching eyelid & clogged up nose--
aching teeth and very cold toes.
Lie down with no relief; sit upright

with aching teeth. Drink more water
& eat some soup; give up the fight
to get some sleep. Read some natter

in a book, curse the virus who loves
your look, who thrives in regions dark
and vast, who loves the world "sinus"

and plans to last (long time!), who shoves
your plans with no regard, who cares
not if you leave your house nor visit your

yard. Woe is me is the old refrain.
I remember it well, its power, its reign
in the hours between sleep and pain.

This night I offer myself to the powers
that be, ask they be gentle, request
that they free

me

from all of this mess
and let me accept that only hours--perhaps
days--will make me more useful in so many ways.

The Painted Swing (revised again)

The Painted Swing

The cold takes my breath,
but I concede, give myself
to the strength of worn slats,
grooves made by the many
throughout the years, embrace
the feeling which rages between
hormones and liquor.

The hard cold is a relief--
embraceable and real.

I push
some buttons and she answers,
her voice like an echo, emptied
of body, sound only reverberating
across the scientific explainable
wonders of the day. I tell her about
entering the room where my father

died, phone propped on shoulders
drooping more each year. No need
to explain, I continue: I had to do it,
Mom. It's my job. I had to go into
the room where Dad took his last
breath, pay attention to the words
of another in that bed where his life
ended, become a vehicle, a lifeline,
the mourning daughter an aside.

I can't remember why I felt
compelled to tell her. Maybe
because I wanted her to know
she wasn't the only one suffering,
this conversation taking place
many years after my father's
death. Maybe because
everything has always
been about her, about her
needs, her losses. Maybe
because sometimes life is about me,

about my hurt, about my joy,
about my simple act of courage,
maybe because she has never
acknowledged anything about me.

And I feel I can't write this poem
because I am thinking it is a poem
and only a poem. I know that is a lie
I tell myself to keep the myth
howling like a lone wolf seeking
its kin. Mine is a life. It has blue veins
and broken capillaries. It has grey
eyes--my father's eyes--it has the requisite
components of misery and joy: aches,
longings, swollen eyes, unanswered
questions. It is many lifes.

It is about life.
And, it is about me, someone
who entered that room as part
of her job, who has to do hard things
every day that she never thinks
about (if she thinks about me at
all), and I had to let it be what
it was for me--the end, the beginning

of the end, the place where time
does not exist, my mother frozen
in her chair, my brother unable
to speak. I had to be there to listen
to the one who wanted to die, tried
to die, failed in the attempt, was grateful
I was there. I had to live again the whole
and real, bring that room to life, help
one struggling to live and let go one
who died. Same bed. A new day.

All Over Creation (revised)

All Over Creation And Back

Some nights, a walk seems to be
creation in the making, the Biblical
seven days squeezed into an hour,
the wandering tired Me, two days gone

in suicide assessment and training,
learning what I know intuitively but not
always practicing. It's hard work we do,
front line, but not nearly as hard as the work

those we meet are doing. Such hard hard
work to want to be alive. To want to stay alive.
To believe there is a reason. At the first turn

of the block, Molly and I see three people
and a large dog coming our way. I believe
dogs know dogs, but people don't always

let dogs know dogs, and, of all breeds,
it's a Rottweiler, a breed I have been frightened
of for far too long. His name was Jay. He and Molly

exchanged their smell time and that was that.
My fears exaggerated and vanquished meant
nothing to the adrenal glands, which had been

in hyperdrive from the time I spied him, from
the time I first learned fear so many years ago.
Molly & I kept on until we reached the video

rental place so I could drop off Hugo. Then,
we crossed the street to the Red Door church
where a statue of Mary embraces the weary

walkers as they pass by and shows the same
affection for the energetic joggers, drenched
in the clean sweat only the healthy know. Molly

rolled over and over again in front of Mary, her legs
shaking confession to the bright evening stars.
Mary didn't do anything except embrace us.

We walked until we came to the street I used
to live on. As we approached, I saw the telephone
pole and remembered. I was on the phone

with my Granny, and I said, Did you hear that,
Granny? It sounds like my house is falling in.
Let me call you back. Out front, a car had crashed

into the telephone pole, an older man
was behind the wheel, his head bleeding,
his wife asking what had happened.

They were ok. Just shook up. Probably
not as much as me. And then I thought
about my dream last night. My oldest

son running into a cave to catch a baseball,
me screaming it's dark in there. Do you hear
me? Are you ok? Son? Son? And, he came

out, ball in his glove, in his khaki shorts
and white t shirt and I woke up this morning
missing my children and those days.

And, that's that. That was tonight.