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I well know that only the best stews and soups can be made when the beginning is nothing but bones, parsley stems, sprigs of thyme, dried bay leaves, and a few choice vegetables. But do any of those things sound pleasant? Do I look at a giant chink of beef bone and think to myself, “now that looks delicious!” NO! Instead I glance at the ridged thing and try to ignore the obvious blotches of blood and hanging flesh while coating them with oil and find myself wondering why the hell I thought this would be something you wanted to eat. Yet I press on, knowing that only this strange and awkward item can make a dark rich beef stock that will be the backbone of my stew.
Even after the bones are roasted, they force the cook to doubt. No aromas of roasted meat or beefy richness. No golden seared edges or lovely brown bits in the pan. Instead it smells more like a baked cow hide or a barn that’s burned down with the animals inside. And the color, brown and with unappetizing baked blood all just sitting in a pool of melted fat. Delicious is far from what one thinks in a moment like this. Perhaps airline barf bag is a more accurate thought description.
Despite my every sense screaming “Aaaa-wooooo-ga! Abandon ship” and “Dump those disgusting chunk before this gets worse” I know from many pots past that this is the right thing. My stew will turn out, and once I flood this caldron of stems, stick, dried leaves, bones and vegetation with water a supernatural transformation will begin.
It’s hard to believe that such strange beginnings can give rise to what I really want. When you think about it, time is really the most important ingredient . . .or well maybe it’s faith. I guess that’s debatable...
In the end, I just want my stew and not the bloody bones and unwanted botanical trimmings. Why is the beginning so far from the ending that they don’t even resemble one another?
The only thing I have to go on is that someone told me this will work. Either by written recipe or the holler of a large French man that believes himself to be the God of all kitchens. I just have to believe that what I begin with will somehow transform after the assistance of time. Patience is the key . . .and yet that idea is still incomplete. One can’t just stand there and hope that time will do everything for them. Patience is active, laziness is passive. Rather, one must prepare for the next step: place the strainer over the holding container, chop the next set of vegetables, dry the meat for searing, wash the dishes, and so on. Not all tasks seems pertinent or vital but they are necessary for reaching the goal. Delicate care must be given to each moment for a cook to reach a triumphant ending. Focus must be on the present or the details may be forgotten. Whoever said it’s the “big picture” that counts forgot that it was the fine lines of the painting that turned the big blob into the big picture.
Skipping that whole first part would be a disaster . . but jumping in after the tedious part is over sometimes sounds like a good idea. It’s just hard to believe that something so rich, delicious, and satisfying can come from such meager beginnings. It’s not logical to believe that those unpleasant parts led to the pleasure . . or is it?
Sometimes I wonder if all of life can be paralleled by food or if only the most meaningful lessons are hidden within the makings of deliciousness.
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