by Jared Stone
Even though it’s wildly illegal, I check my phone a few times on the ride home. Something could go wrong. Something frequently does. And when it does, my team and I are the last line of defense against dead air on television. Rest assured, America, you shall not lose access to your beloved wannabe actors performing ridiculous tasks on my watch. Tonight, all is well. For now, at least.
At home, however, something is different. A scent greets me before I even make it inside the house. My wife is cooking.
Summer’s commute is even longer than mine, and she’s usually every bit as tired as I am when she walks through the door. As a result, my wife cooking is an event. I mean that not only in the “this is special” sense of the word, but also in the experimental physics sense. When my wife is at the helm, Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle is at play. From observing the current position of the culinary process, one can divine nothing of the project’s velocity. The room is an explosion of flour and knives and probably something wet. I call it Schrödinger’s Kitchen. The meal is both perfect and ruined, simultaneously. Only when the meal is served does the wave function collapse, and we discover the final outcome.
Tonight, Summer’s making an heirloom recipe passed down from her mother and passed to her mother from some mythic figure lost in the depths of time. She is making taco pie. It is, essentially, ground beef, cheddar cheese, and sour cream on top of a crust built from premade crescent-roll dough—all topped with crushed Fritos corn chips on top. Dinner.
Taco pie is the sort of dish that’s tremendously common in the particular corner of the Midwest where I grew up. Like green bean casserole made from cream of mushroom soup, canned green beans, and canned fried onions. Or Rice Krispies treats. It’s food made from other processed foods. It’s much faster than making each of the component ingredients separately, and it doesn’t taste half-bad. It isn’t haute cuisine, but when you’re too tired to cook, it’s an easy one-dish meal.
By the time I arrive, Summer has already fed Declan a sliver of the pie, which he’s nibbled on and picked at, birdlike. I sit down across from him to talk about his day for a few minutes. He made a lot of art at day care today. He loves art. After showing me a couple of watercolor paintings, it’s time for bed. I wish I had more time with him in the evenings, but these few scant minutes are all that remain between my return and his bedtime. I tuck him in, sing him a song originally warbled by sock puppets, and ten minutes later he’s out cold.
Finally, Summer and I sit for our own meal. Exhausted. “Thanks for making dinner,” I say. “We haven’t had taco pie in a while.”
Summer nods. “I know. We have the world’s largest stockpile of ground beef, now.… I figured Dec might like it. It’s so hard to get him to eat protein.”
“What’s not to like? Pie. Corn chips. Cheese. It’s like the toddler trifecta.”
She chuckles and picks at her plate.
“Good day?” I ask.
“Long day,” she replies. “There was a wreck on the 405.” Translation: longer commute. “I almost didn’t make it home to get D. in time.” Our day care closes at 6:00 p.m. We arrive at 5:59 on the best of days. If we were late, I don’t think they’d keep our child overnight to prove a point, but it’s probably best not to press the issue.
“Did they seem mad about it?” I ask.
“No. But he was the last one to be picked up, again. I don’t like doing that to him.”
“I know,” I mumble, idly fingering my phone. No new e-mails.
“Do you have to do that?” she asks.
“Do what?”
“You’re checking your e-mail.”
“We’re finishing a piece tonight. I’m expecting a link to proof the final version.”
“Do you have to check while we’re eating?”
“The guys are still working. They’re waiting on me to look. If I don’t check, they have to stick around the office staring off into middle distance while they wait for stupid me to say nice things.”
“I’m waiting for you to say nice things. And I’m your wife. Talking about our son.” Then, a beat later, she adds, “And don’t call yourself stupid.”
I demur, thumbing the lock button on my phone to blank the screen.
I take another bite of this pie that my wife made for us to share together. It’s crunchy from the corn chip topping. There, munching on my Fritos-covered grass-fed beef, I pause. I feel guilty. I know what high-quality beef this is. I know how much hard work went into raising the animal humanely, harvesting it quickly and painlessly, and getting it into my backyard. It does not deserve to be covered in Fritos dust. Suddenly, I am not hungry.
But I don’t want to be rude. Quietly, I lay down my fork and turn back to Summer. “So he was the last one?”
“The very last.” She pokes at her food, silent. Finally, “I feel like I’m missing his childhood.”
“You aren’t missing his childhood.”
She counts on her fingers. “I don’t see him in the morning at all. I leave before he gets up. You take him to day care, and I pick him up at six. Drive home, hang out for an hour, then it’s time to get ready for bed. I see him for a little over an hour a day.”
“It’s hard, I know.”
“Hard? It’s not hard. I’m just missing out.”
I sigh heavily, not really sure what to say. “What if—”
Klaxons sound from my phone—a special “Oh, shit!” ringtone I’ve assigned to the office. I glance from the phone to my wife. “I need to get this.”
She shrugs, dismissing me. I thumb the talk button and listen for a few moments. The Machine is down. Something’s broken and something’s lost and it all has to be fixed tonight. I turn back to Summer.
“I have to go.”
She knows. She always knows.
* * *
A few days later, I’m standing in Declan’s room in the dark. Early morning dark, with the sky just starting to nudge toward purple and indigo before really getting to the business of rising. Summer and I watch over Dec as he sleeps for the first time tonight.
He’s sick. But not sick like adults get: [cough cough] I don’t feel so good. He’s sick like very small children get. The world-shattering, my life is pain, cataclysmic horror show of an illness. The kind of sick kids get that when the coughing starts you don’t know which orifice some bodily substance is going to erupt from or what it’ll be. And it’s been going all night.
Summer and I back out of his room with as much grace as we can muster, terrified of knocking over or kicking or looking sideways at anything that could wake Declan from his hard-fought slumber.
Safe in the living room, I collapse onto a couch while Summer slumps in a chair.
“You or me?” she asks.
“You or me what?”
“Do you want to stay home or should I?”
I take a long, deep breath as I rub my eyes. “I don’t know. Whaddaya got?”
“I can’t really afford to be out. I’m the only one in the office, and we’re finishing credits on a film this week.”
“If you stayed home you could get some sleep.”
“I can’t take calls and take care of Declan at the same time.”
“Right.” She has a point. At times like this, I wish we lived near family. We’re two thousand miles from the nearest person either of us shares a chromosome with. Besides Declan, that is.
“You guys busy?”
“Sure. Three projects and a sales tape. Trying to knock them out before the trip.”
“Can anyone cover?”
“Not really.” I crack my neck. It’s gonna be me, and I know it. “I can handle it from here, though. I have mostly scripts and e-mail today.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I’m sure. It’ll be alright.” I am in fact sure of no such thing. But it’s our only option. “Let’s get some sleep while we can.”
* * *
Dec is intermittently awake throughout the morning. After firing a quick e-mail to the
office, I split my time between petting his back and doing what I can to put things in order around the house. Basil needs to eat. There are dishes to do. Sheets to be changed, washed, sterilized—and maybe burned, depending.
The day is calming, in a way. Despite the situation, there is a serenity in these domestic tasks and in putting the house in order. Sometime after noon, with Dec finally down for something like a nap, I turn my attention to dinner that night. If not for Declan, then at least for Summer and me.
Braising is the order of the day. I’m tired, Dec’s exhausted, and I’m sure that Summer will be wiped out when she gets home. We need something homey and satisfying, and braises are food for the soul. There’s something about meat cooked low and forever that offers fortitude for the journey, whatever that journey may be.
Braising is the act of cooking a piece of meat in a liquid at low temperature for a very long time. If this project is about making the most out of every cut, braising a pot roast is a reasonable first step. I’ve done a pot roast before—simple fire-and-forgets in a crock pot with whatever vegetables I had at the time—but today, with nothing but time on my hands, I’m going to do it right. I pour a big cup of coffee and set to work.
The cut in question is a chuck roast. A cut off the shoulder of the cow, it has a lot of beefy flavor but also a lot of connective tissue that has to be dealt with in some way. In this case, braising will melt the connective tissue and thicken the braising liquid into a sauce. If cooked too hot or too fast, that tissue will remain intact and will not be delicious. The road to Nasty is paved with messed-up braises.
My chuck roast is a little over two pounds. It’s a rich, vibrant pink oblong, streaked with white fat and a few crevasses across the surface of the meat. I lay it on a cutting board and pat it as dry as I can with paper towels.
First things first: I put a couple of cups of all-purpose flour in a pie pan, along with a couple of heavy pinches of salt and some solid grinds of black pepper. I nestle the roast in the pan, turning it to coat the meat. I go heavy on the seasonings because most will fall off anyway. When coated, it looks like a fluffy white pillow.
I set a casserole dish on my stove’s biggest burner, pour in some canola oil, and gun the heat. When the oil dances like a Rockette, I gently lay the roast in the dish, turning the meat to sear all sides into golden-brown loveliness.
Suitably seared, I move the meat to a plate and add a quick mirepoix (diced onion, celery, and carrot in a 2:1:1 ratio) back into the casserole dish, along with some whole garlic cloves and an entire bottle of Shiraz. I also knock the heat back down to medium and preheat the oven. When the wine reaches the barest of simmers, I gently nestle the meat back into the pot. About three-quarters of the meat is covered by the deep-maroon liquid, like a meaty iceberg in a nighttime sea. I turn off the burner, cover the pot, and slide it into the oven.
That done, and the boy still sleeping, I pause for a moment. I have to wait for this pot roast now. In the meantime, I seem to have a moment to myself. It’s weird. I sit down on the couch with my laptop to sort my inbox, really out of habit more than anything else.
“Daddy?” I turn. Declan stands in the doorway, rubbing eyes still half-closed from sleep.
“What’s up, little man?”
“I want Mommy.” The universal proclamation of sick kids everywhere.
“I know, buddy. I miss her, too. How’s your tummy?”
“Hurts.” He fights against a lower lip quiver and almost wins. “Where’s Mommy?”
“She’s at work, buddy. But she’ll be home real soon.” Tears begin to well up in his eyes, so I continue. “Wanna come sit on my lap?”
I set my laptop aside and he clambers into my arms, head resting on my chest. We sit there for a long moment. If there is a silver lining to this particular dark cloud of childhood contagion, it is in moments like these. I haven’t gotten to spend this much weekday time with Declan in months. Though I certainly wish he felt better, this time together is quietly lovely. “Do you want me to sing a song, D.?”
“No,” he replies. “I want an imagination story.” A story I make up.
“You got it.” I pet his back and continue. “Once upon a time, there was a ladybug.”
“A ladybug?”
“Not just any ladybug. A giant ladybug.”
“What was his name?”
“His name was Murray.”
* * *
Three hours later, the boy is asleep and the house smells amazing. Savory and earthy and slightly acrid from the wine. I check the meat, and it disintegrates at a touch. Dinner is near.
I start some polenta with Parmesan and remove the meat to a foil-tented plate. My dog, Basil, will disappear this meat like a spy in Smolensk if I turn my back, so I stash the plate in the microwave to keep it safe. I strain the braising liquid into a bowl, then add the liquid back to the casserole dish, put a fire under it, and reduce it to build a sauce. When it coats the back of a spoon, I add in a little butter. In classic French cuisine, this is called monter au beurre and gives the sauce a glossy finish. I like glossy finishes.
When Summer returns home, I dish her a bowl of cheesy polenta, topped with chunks of tender, melt-in-your-mouth beef and a Shiraz-reduction pan sauce.
“I want our house to always smell this way,” Summer says over dinner. The meat is rich and gently sweet, mixed with the dry nuttiness of the polenta.
That is to say: This is good. Real good.
I’m kind of amazed. I made this?
“Thanks.” I smile. “I’m glad you’re digging it.”
“How’d it go today?” she asks.
“It was okay. He slept a lot,” I answer. “You?”
“Good. Productive. Hard to be away, though.”
“I know. We missed you. Dec especially.”
“Dec especially?” she teases.
“You know what I meant. It’s nice having the band back together. I mean, when we aren’t running higgledy-piggledy all over the place.”
“I bet. I don’t like that Declan’s sick today, or anything. But I can see how it’d be nice to spend a whole day with him. Without a whole weekend to-do list to worry about, I mean.”
I take another bite of my dinner. Pensive. “Is it weird that two moderately capable people barely have the time to manage their household, keep up with their careers, and also parent a little boy?”
“I don’t know.” Summer shrugs. “The question of our time, I suppose.”
“Man, we’re busy.”
She nods. “That we are.”
Red Wine–Braised Chuck Roast
Time: 3 to 5 hours
Serves 4 to 6
Braising transforms tougher cuts into gorgeous, tender dishes that will make your whole house smell amazing. Cooking in a moist environment over low heat changes a connective tissue called collagen into a different substance, gelatin. The result: incredibly tender meat and a beautiful, naturally thickened sauce.
Perfect cuts for this will come off the chuck—chuck roast, arm roast, chuck eye roast, blade roast—but cuts off the round can work, too.
2 cups all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons kosher salt
2 teaspoons freshly ground black pepper
1 (2- to 3-pound) chuck roast
Canola oil (or coconut oil, ghee, bacon fat, or lard)
1 white onion, diced
2 carrots, diced
1 rib celery, diced
2 cloves garlic, sliced
1 (750-milliliter) bottle red wine
2 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into cubes
1. Preheat the oven to 300°F.
2. Combine the flour, salt, and pepper. Dredge the meat in the mixture until well covered. (Alternatively, you can omit the flour and simply season liberally with salt and pepper.)
3. In a Dutch oven a little larger than the roast, sear the meat on all sides over high heat in just enough oil to cover the bottom of the pan. Remove the meat and set it aside.
4. Add a l
ittle more oil to the pot, add the onion, carrots, celery, and garlic, and cook over medium heat for a few minutes, until they’re aromatic and slightly translucent. Scrape the bottom of the pot to release any stuck-on browned bits.
5. Pour in the wine and bring to a simmer.
6. Add the meat; the liquid should cover at least two-thirds of the roast. (If it doesn’t, add a little water.) Cover the pot and transfer to the oven.
7. Cook, covered, for several hours, until the meat falls apart at the slightest touch or whisper of its name. The liquid should be simmering—bubbling every second or two—not boiling. If it’s bubbling too vigorously, turn down the heat. Check the level of the liquid every 45 minutes or so. If the level drops to cover less than half the meat, add hot water to bring the level back up to two-thirds. Total braising time will vary. The dish is done when the meat is very, very tender.
Everything up to this point can be done up to a day in advance, if you wish. If preparing in advance, let the meat cool in the braising liquid. Then, when preparing the actual meal, reheat the dish over low heat and proceed as directed.
8. Remove the pot from the oven. Stash the meat on a plate and loosely tent with foil.
9. Time to make a sauce. Strain the braising liquid, discarding the solids, and return the liquid to the Dutch oven. Boil the liquid, uncovered, for 10 to 15 minutes over medium-high heat until the liquid is reduced and coats the back of a spoon.
10. Remove from the heat, add the butter, and stir until the butter melts.
11. Slice the roast and serve over a starch of your choice, topped with a few spoonfuls of the sauce. Wild rice, polenta, and mashed potatoes are all excellent starch options.
If you have an extra bottle of the wine you braised in, serve it at the table. It’s classy.
3
Heritage
“You bought a what?”
“No, you heard right. I bought a cow.” It’s noonish. I’m in a diner too hip for its zip code, sitting across the table from my friend Mike. He’s a television editor I used to work with, a paragon of dry wit and keen intellect. Los Angeles by way of Chicago. We do lunch from time to time.