It’s cold out; the rain is thundering against the glass roof and I’ve only got one light on in the kitchen. The dog sleeps next to my feet, his tummy flat against the heated floor. It’s time for the big casserole dish to make its first outing of the year, providing a snug home to butter beans, thick broths made from cuts of meat and tomato-based stews. The garden is covered in fallen leaves and I find myself wanting dishes that are slow-cooked, something that simmers slowly for hours, filling the house with smells of rosemary and thyme and tender meat.
With slow cooking, while supposedly fairly hands off, you can’t help but stay close to the oven or hob, to take a peek under the lid to see how the short ribs are tendering, to watch the tomatoes break down, and to smell the sauces simmering away.
Cooking is something we often love to do for others — the joy of watching someone close take their first bite into a dish that has been silently stewing all day. It’s the experience of putting our hard work and love into such a delicious and heart warming result. Sometimes, cooking is a flash of excited stirring and flipping and sautéing. And sometimes it is more like the gentle process of a clam burnishing a pearl. But, while supposedly hands off, no one can resist staying close to the oven or hob, taking the odd peek under the lid to see how the short ribs are tendering, to watch the tomatoes break down, and to smell the sauce simmering away. It’s the eager anticipation knowing that those cuts of beef, a little stock, cups of red wine, some thyme and onions are baking slowly away in the background, until that satisfying point when the meat turns sweet and starts falling off the bone. And nothing goes to waste: in the end, I can take the six-hour broth, boil it down with some corn starch to make a thick gravy that is ladled over in spoonfuls.
The smell alone is often reward enough. Everything hums in the kitchen and for a brief moment everything feels alright, it feels cosy and comfortable and homely — even with the wind whipping at the trees outside. It’s the delight of having to fully savour something that has taken the course of a full-work day to bring to fruition — a dish in which the flavour relies, not just on the seasonings, but keeping the meat on its bone as it cooks. When you use two forks to gently tear the meat apart, the juices seeping out, it’s magical.
This autumn, I’ve taken to one pot dishes; chicken stock made from the leftover carcass of a rotisserie chicken, roasted butternut squash blended into an orange soup topped with crème fraîche, six-hour slow-cooked short ribs simmered in a red wine and beef broth, then eaten over rooted vegetable mash.
The seasonings are soft and warm – cinnamon, ginger, rosemary, thyme, lots of garlic and cumin. The servings are generous, the cooking sure and slow, the kitchen cosy. I keep two lists on my fridge of the things I need to make before the end of the year. Most of them are something slow-cooked, something with mash or made into a pie — both sweet and savoury. Time to hunker down and roast, bake and stew.