Pot Roast on 11/5

I look forward to making it again. I’ll make it right next time.

Today I made a pot roast. I bought the meat on Tuesday morning. Chuck roast, they didn’t have rump roast. 3 ½ pounds. I soaked it in buttermilk overnight, as instructed by a very basic pot roast recipe in Nourishing Traditions. Around mid day today, I dry the pieces of beef, preparing to sear them on all sides. 

My favorite orange pot lives in the bottom corner cabinet. I pull out our overflow Tupperware, mason jars without lids, another favorite cast iron dutch oven that is too small for this endeavor. In the orange pot I make brisket for Rosh Hashanah, Pumpkin soup for our family reunion, last week’s short ribs and even a whole roast rabbit once. I plan to steal that orange pot from my grandparent’s house when I leave, so that maybe one day my own grandchild can steal it from me. 

Olive oil and ghee coat the bottom of the pan. I sear the chunks of beef in two rounds, removing them to fill the pot with some red wine and bone broth. I throw in thyme, little by little, more and more. I want flavor. When the liquid boils, the meat goes back in. Lid on, the pumpkin pot goes in the oven. 300 degrees. I have 3 hours before I need to check on it.

Today Donald J. Trump has been elected to be the 47th president of the United States. The morning is slow. When I walk downstairs, my grandpa startles me. He’s sitting on the couch in the dark, reading the news from my grandma’s Ipad. He asks if I’ve heard the news and my eyes well. We put on Dean Martin in the kitchen. I make his eggs, like I do every Wednesday and Saturday. When my grandma comes into the kitchen, she is sweet. I boil the water for her coffee and slice a piece of sourdough. “So who won?” she asks. My grandpa sighs. I lower my head. Her arms fly into the air, as if she is holding pom-poms, cheering on the highschool quarterback. My head lowers. I avoid her gaze, refusing to indulge her with a reaction.

In my room, I plan to hermit. The news echoes through the house. My grandpa watches in his office, my grandma in the den. I’m not listening. I can smell the pot roast. I write about harvesting chestnuts with my dad. I write about visiting the Nebraska state fair with my mom. I text my cousins. I scroll on instagram. My timer dings, It’s been 3 hours. The meat is tender. 2 lbs of carrots, 1 lb of red potatoes go into the pot. Some salt too. Another hour. 

Back in my room, I close my eyes. A slow breath through my nose, my heart fills with the scent wafting through the house. The promise of a simple hardy dinner. I’m grateful to nourish my body. 

I pick out the woody thyme stems, careful not to burn my fingers in the hot liquid. Spooning it into a serving dish, it occurs to me I’ve made it wrong. I sliced the chunks of meat into 2 inch cubes, like a recipe for Beef Daube – a seasonal french stew that I made a couple months ago – called for. This chopped up pot roast is falling apart, tender. I look forward to making it again. I’ll make it right next time.

The news is still on when I serve my grandparents their dinner. I scrub the traces of a dinner made with love, on a somber day. Sudds fill the pot as I scrape away the residue, dreaming of the next meal I will clean out of it.