Growing up, beef broth came in two forms--can or carton. It's a kitchen staple of course, but the assumption is that these types of things aren't worth the time of a busy home-cook. This is especially true for anyone who has ever done their own prep work in the kitchen, blistering hands from chopping vegetables and searing roasts. Anything that saves time in preparing a meal becomes a Godsend. Taking more than 30 min to create an ingredient that costs less than $1.00 at the grocery store becomes absurd.
It is with this reality in mind that I created my first homemade beef broth. As part of our family Christmas, we always split a half beef with my sister and her family. I consider myself an adventurous home cook, so I always agree to taking the offal and other undesirable cuts. When journeying around the county however, storing and transporting that much beef is impossible, and the balance of our beef has remained in a chest freezer in my parents basement. On a recent visit home, Amanda and I filled a cooler with roasts, steaks, and ground beef, as we usually do.
For those who don't know how freezer beef is packaged, I'll explain. The various cuts are wrapped first in a layer of heavy plastic. These cuts are then wrapped a second time in heavy, white paper. On the outside, the cuts are labeled in red print, (round steak for swissing, t-bone steak, chuck roast). Many of the smaller cuts are wrapped in pairs or quartets depending on the size. All this wrapping and packing serves to create a uniform assortment in the freezer. Mistakes can occur in selection.
It was just such a mistake that instigated the attempt at beef broth. I had pulled an unnamed roast from the freezer the night before. It was not a roast. It was soup bones. In fairness, they were identically packaged to chuck roast. But, no matter, I seized the opportunity to try something new. I found a recipe, pulled out my pressure cooker, and boiled away. The beef broth came out wonderfully; supper did not.
It is my assertion, from this point forward, that, for a meat eater, gnawing of bones is mandatory. Anyone "in-the-know" knows the best bits of meat lie in the crevices of bones and must be sucked and slurped with fervor.
Being of sound, rural mind, I decided that the soup bones and their hanging bits of meat would be a perfectly adequate main course for our supper. Accessing the meat simply required picking up each bone and gnawing, chewing, sucking, grinding, and picking around the various fats and sinews of each piece. Tossing each bone aside when finished, only to pick up the next and begin again, is it's own special kind of country pleasure. Each one presents its own challenges in manipulating the bone and navigating the connective tissues, but the treasure awaiting is the most sumptuous piece of beef you've ever eaten. Each one is a new flavor profile as well, presenting varying ratios of fats, and meats, and juices, and marrow. Gnawing soup bones is a master-class in the variety of what beef can become. Gnawing soup bones is the rural equivalent of Spanish style tappas. Gnawing soup bones is required.
I had forgotten one thing though. It's a thing no one of sound, rural mind should ever forget. My wife doesn't gnaw on bones. I had prepared a supper--delightful in my mind, inedible to her's. There's the rub. I was so consumed in creating something new, and beautiful, and delicious that I forgot the purpose for it's creation in the first place. This is a common experience.
How often do we exchange purpose for newness, or beauty, or pleasure? It's commonplace here in Detroit, though I'd assess it to be equally commonplace in any rural town or major city. I'm as guilty as anyone. I have more clothes than I wear, more books than I'll read, and more facebook friends than people I actually know. Embellishment and ornamentation can make the world richer, and deeper, and brighter. It's one of the reasons I love the English language. But, at some point, it has the opposite effect. Ideas get confusing. Compromise and understanding are lost. The truth becomes muddy. It's why we rural people always seem to yearn for things gone by... for simpler days. Sometimes, we need to be reminded. Hands are for working. Ears are for listening. And soup bones... those are for soup.
It is with this reality in mind that I created my first homemade beef broth. As part of our family Christmas, we always split a half beef with my sister and her family. I consider myself an adventurous home cook, so I always agree to taking the offal and other undesirable cuts. When journeying around the county however, storing and transporting that much beef is impossible, and the balance of our beef has remained in a chest freezer in my parents basement. On a recent visit home, Amanda and I filled a cooler with roasts, steaks, and ground beef, as we usually do.
For those who don't know how freezer beef is packaged, I'll explain. The various cuts are wrapped first in a layer of heavy plastic. These cuts are then wrapped a second time in heavy, white paper. On the outside, the cuts are labeled in red print, (round steak for swissing, t-bone steak, chuck roast). Many of the smaller cuts are wrapped in pairs or quartets depending on the size. All this wrapping and packing serves to create a uniform assortment in the freezer. Mistakes can occur in selection.
It was just such a mistake that instigated the attempt at beef broth. I had pulled an unnamed roast from the freezer the night before. It was not a roast. It was soup bones. In fairness, they were identically packaged to chuck roast. But, no matter, I seized the opportunity to try something new. I found a recipe, pulled out my pressure cooker, and boiled away. The beef broth came out wonderfully; supper did not.
It is my assertion, from this point forward, that, for a meat eater, gnawing of bones is mandatory. Anyone "in-the-know" knows the best bits of meat lie in the crevices of bones and must be sucked and slurped with fervor.
Being of sound, rural mind, I decided that the soup bones and their hanging bits of meat would be a perfectly adequate main course for our supper. Accessing the meat simply required picking up each bone and gnawing, chewing, sucking, grinding, and picking around the various fats and sinews of each piece. Tossing each bone aside when finished, only to pick up the next and begin again, is it's own special kind of country pleasure. Each one presents its own challenges in manipulating the bone and navigating the connective tissues, but the treasure awaiting is the most sumptuous piece of beef you've ever eaten. Each one is a new flavor profile as well, presenting varying ratios of fats, and meats, and juices, and marrow. Gnawing soup bones is a master-class in the variety of what beef can become. Gnawing soup bones is the rural equivalent of Spanish style tappas. Gnawing soup bones is required.
I had forgotten one thing though. It's a thing no one of sound, rural mind should ever forget. My wife doesn't gnaw on bones. I had prepared a supper--delightful in my mind, inedible to her's. There's the rub. I was so consumed in creating something new, and beautiful, and delicious that I forgot the purpose for it's creation in the first place. This is a common experience.
How often do we exchange purpose for newness, or beauty, or pleasure? It's commonplace here in Detroit, though I'd assess it to be equally commonplace in any rural town or major city. I'm as guilty as anyone. I have more clothes than I wear, more books than I'll read, and more facebook friends than people I actually know. Embellishment and ornamentation can make the world richer, and deeper, and brighter. It's one of the reasons I love the English language. But, at some point, it has the opposite effect. Ideas get confusing. Compromise and understanding are lost. The truth becomes muddy. It's why we rural people always seem to yearn for things gone by... for simpler days. Sometimes, we need to be reminded. Hands are for working. Ears are for listening. And soup bones... those are for soup.