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In our house, apparently, nothing is as alluring as food. Certain types of food. For example, in our 43 years in this place I have bought steak exactly one time. We have no interest in the business of killing an animal so we can feed on its muscle.
However, do not colour us righteous just yet. For, once that animal has been slaughtered so some carnivorous human can devour its big-muscle steaks, we, like gleaners let into the reaped field to pick up the missed grains—we are more than happy to feast on the bones.
Our recent order from Meat Me in the Junction included three bags each of marrow bones and knuckle bones. Yesterday for our big meal of the day I roasted all the marrow bones and we ate marrow spread onto French bread until we were stuffed. I cooked up a bag of spinach as well, to simulate a well-balanced meal.
In the spirit of waste-not-want-not, we then roasted up the knuckle bones along with carrots, celery, and onion, and put all these, plus the empty marrow bones, into our largest stockpot. We simmered the daylights out of it for over 24 hours, and the smell of virtue filled the house all night long.
This morning found me packaging up the stock and cleaning up the mess. There's always cleaning up when virtue is involved, though you often forget that when you're starting out. Skimming a deep layer of liquid fat from the top of the stock gave me nearly six cups of fat. Beef fat we don't save. And don't tell me it is excellent tallow for making soap and candles, because that horse has left the barn.
So there I am in the morning: giant stockpot filled with bones and stock. The pot is much too heavy to lift, so I use a small saucepan to dip out liquid and bones and strain it into large bowls. The bones, slimy with fat, go into plastic bags for composting.
Then I wash the huge stockpot in very hot water and detergent to get rid of the residual grease. All of this (and more) happens before nine in the morning.
The "more" that I did was to clean the stove. I've never expressly told you what a bad housekeeper I am (shame is a strong inhibitor), but the whole time we had our Garland gas range I never once cleaned the oven. The stovetop I wiped off when I needed to; it was black so I was never rewarded by a solid before-and-after difference.
The new stove is a glass-top electric. One of its drawbacks is that the smooth, shiny top clearly reveals the cooking that has taken place. For the first time in my life I am an assiduous stovetop cleaner. Really. So this morning, after cleaning the giant stockpot I was Windexing the top of the stove, shining it to a fare-thee-well. The alternative—not shining it—promotes guilt every time I walk into the kitchen.
I guess that's all I really wanted to say: see Ann the diligent housewife. Probably it's the fact that Covid restrictions, no matter how loosened they might be now, have reduced my activities to the bare minimum of watching the neighbourhood all day long through the alcove windows. That and the NYTimes book of 500 crossword puzzles (that Will Shortz is one busy fellow!). Leisure is the name of the game. Leisure plus the allure of food.
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com
