Sunday, January 2, 2011


Eastside Road, January 2, 2011—
NOT AN OUNCE gained or lost over the last couple of days, in spite of the delicious feasting, so we celebrate with a proper Sunday supper. This morning, going through the piles of things-to-be-read next my chair, I ran across a pamphlet of traditional Piemontese recipes picked up at Slow Food last October.

Nearly simultaneously Lindsey thought of the bottom round steak that's been lingering in the freezer since I bought it at the Farmers' Market last summer.

So here's what she did: browned the steak in olive oil in a heavy copper pan, put in a carrot, an onion, and a stalk of celery cut into pieces and wilted them; then added half a bottle of wine, a couple of bay leaves, rosemary, a couple of cloves; covered it, and set it on the wood stove where it simmered all afternoon.

Then I lifted the steak out and put it on a plate, and ran the vegetables through the food mill, then returned the resulting sauce to the fire to heat it. Slice the steak; pour the sauce over. Lindsey had steam-sautéed some potatoes, and of course we had our green salad; and for dessert L. rustled up a delicious little date cake. Fabulous.
Cheap Pinot nero


Curtis Faville said...

"rustled up"

Haven't heard that charming phrase in many a moon. My late stepfather--who grew up in Wisconsin before WWI--often used it.

Charles Shere said...

It wasn't an uncommon phrase in my youth, but now that you make me think about it, it always seemed related to food. Particularly in the phrase “rustle up some grub.” Maybe it originated in cowboy country.