When I grow up I will be a perfect cook

I discovered the butcher added my favorite meat to his biological range! I tried to find the english name for this dish, but couldn't find it. It's beef from the shoulder-area and it needs to be cooked for about two hours to get it soft and chewy. My grandmother is very experienced in making this perfectly. Last time I tried it I ended up with two tiny pieces of blackened and burned meat... So this time I was going to keep a closer eye on the pan and supply it with plenty of butter and water...
Before and after pictures

Every year we get a big Christmasparcel from work. The fucked up traffic forced me to make two slippery emergency stops, causing my bike and I to fall over in the snow and making me drop the parcel. So I was kind of worried when I finally got to open it...

One more day of work (I get off at four tomorrow, yay!).

What's in the fucking box?

In the mail: card from carolinecrane (pic made me smile:) and two more packages that I'm gonna save for my birthday (Christmas Schmistmas). One from Belgium from tanisafan and one from somewhere in the Netherlands without a name. (oooooh.)

So even if my birthday-party won't start until the afternoon, I already have a pile of presents when I wake up on my birthday \o/.

Updates:

Yesterday's beef-experiment was not a total success. Maybe I shouldn't have reheated it in the microwave. Will see if the second piece is chewier when I make a one-pot-stew of left overs later this week;)

Haven't taken any chances to get better acquainted with my fbf the last couple of weeks. Thought I already had seen the last of him before the holidays, when he made an unexpected appearance yesterday and got on the bus at a different stop. He seemed amused by the surprised look on my face and greeted me with a enthused 'hey!' and a smile. That will get me through to the new year;) Although he did lose some points when I learned he has a cellphone. Disappointed.

Continued my series of snowpictures

Finally finished The Mill On The Floss by George Eliot

The boobs of doom are exhausting. Hrmpf.