Finally the heat has
turned. Fall is in the air, leaves are
starting to turn (ever so slightly), and the nights have converted to what most
of us refer to as “good sleeping weather.”
Perfect weather to cook a stew.
This morning I haul out
the crock pot, intending to follow a recipe to the letter until I realize that
I’m missing some of the required key ingredients, like mushrooms and bacon. I don’t usually put mushrooms nor bacon in my
stew. I mean, I do once in a while, but
I didn’t buy any at the store yesterday.
Instead, I get the beef
ready, toss all of it into the pot, then start piling cut vegetables on top:
potatoes, carrots, green beans, onion, garlic.
I see half a bottle of shiraz wine on the counter. In it goes.
I open the fridge and see three bottles of lager my son left behind when
he went off to college two weeks ago. I
grab one, open it, and pour that in, as well.
Worcestershire sauce, soy sauce, salt, pepper, paprika, allspice, and
more. I usually add a tablespoon of
sugar and some lemon juice, but in all the excitement, I forget. Lastly, I pop in two whole bay leaves, some
water to level off the liquid, set the crock pot on high, throw on the cover,
and walk away.
I check the concoction
periodically, but mostly I let it do what crock pots do; I leave it be while
the stew cooks. After about three hours,
the house fills with a wonderful aroma.
Three more hours and I add in the jar of boiled onions and mix the whole
thing together. I thicken the sauce, let
it cook for another half hour, then sit down to eat a bowl of whatever may come
from my careless handiwork.
After one bite, I realize
that this is the best damn stew I have ever made in my entire life, and beef
stew is one of my few specialties. I
inhale one large bowlful and dive in for a second. I have a piece of cornbread with the first
bowl, and a soft roll with the second bowl.
I sneak more stew as I prepare the rest for the fridge (tomorrow night’s
dinner) and the freezer. I’m going to
get three or four more meals out of this stew … unless I keep eating two huge
bowls at a time, in which case I might get one and a half more meals.
Summer may be ending, but
stew season is just beginning. If I can
just remember what the heck I did to make this stew so good, winter might not
be so bad, regardless of what forecasters, the Farmer’s Almanac, and feverishly busy squirrels tell us.
