Them Bones
If you remember my post a while back where I was wondering how I would occupy myself this winter, you may recall me stating that I would like to get into cooking and baking again. I am happy to report that I’ve since been spending more time in the kitchen, and I dare say I’ve been enjoying it. I am truly looking forward to a winter spent creating delicious foods.
Since Sam will be leaving for her New Zealand adventure next week, I wanted to make a special meal for her before she goes: Soupe à l’oignon—French onion soup. I’ve only made it once before because it’s a whole process. Well, the soup is easy; it’s the homemade beef stock that puts me off. This soup is too special to spoil with boxed beef stock. In fact, I will posit that there is never a time for boxed beef stock.
I bought two pounds of beef bones back in November, which I froze; I paid six dollars for the pleasure. That is a bit spendy in my opinion, especially since I’m not sure it’s enough to yield the necessary two quarts of stock. However, as I already stated, this is a special dinner, so La Cheapo here begrudgingly paid the price.
Scents & Sensibility
On Sunday, with Sam’s departure on the horizon, I decided to finally make the stock. I threw the bones into my stockpot, covered them in a couple of inches of water, and slapped a lid on. Rather quickly the pot came to a boil, which led to its contents boiling over and making a disgusting mess of liquid meat matter on my stovetop. As I aggressively simmered the bones for 20 minutes, I continuously skimmed off the revolting white scum that formed. All the while I received a facial steaming that smelled strongly of gelatin. I may have wretched.
Once the bones finished simmering, I placed them on a sheet pan and slid them into the oven to roast. After 30 minutes, I added an onion and some garlic. This whole process smelled badly as well. It also created smoke. As the acrid stench filled the air, I quickly pulled the sheet pan out of the oven, while expecting the smoke alarm to go off. To my relief, it didn’t.
I placed the contents of the sheet pan back into my stockpot, which I had mercilessly scrubbed with Dawn and scalding water. Next, I covered everything in a couple inches of water and tossed in salt, peppercorns, and a bay leaf. I can’t forget the ingrédient secret: an assortment of dried mushrooms that were past their prime—by five years. There is no shame in using vintage mushrooms.
After 19 hours of gentle simmering, the stock took on a rich, heady scent of beef. Despite the house still reeking of yesterday’s miasma, the resulting concoction has been well worth the effort. To rid my home of the still-lingering offending scents, I am currently burning a Yankee Candle “Pumpkin Maple Crème Caramel” candle—my favorite scent. Then again, in a few hours, the smell of a pound-and-a-half of onions will supplant the candle’s deliciously sweet bouquet, so I’ll be back at square one.
Jen & Julia
For the soup, I am using Julia Child’s recipe from Mastering the Art of French Cooking. The only change I make to her recipe is the omission of cognac. While I have cognac tastes, I’m on a vermouth budget. However, I assure you, dear reader, that the soup will still be delicious. After all, even Julia Child never mastered the art of vintage mushroom stock, and the stock truly is the star ingredient here. And despite the tribulations I faced while crafting my stock, when Sam sits down to dinner tonight it will all have been worth it.
