Bones_ Recipes, History, and Lore - Jennifer McLagan [0]
Recipes, History, and Lore
Jennifer McLagan
For Haralds, love you to the bones
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Introduction
Beef and Veal
Pork
Lamb
Poultry
Fish
Game
Bonelogue
Index
Acknowledgments
Suggested Reading
Author’s Note
Copyright
About the Publisher
Introduction
The connection between flesh and bone is primordial and fundamental. Yet today, bones have fallen out of favor. We are all familiar with the expression, “The nearer the bone the sweeter the meat,” but we demand everything precut and prepackaged, and that is, increasingly, all we can buy. Our world is full of recipes for boneless, skinless (and often tasteless) pieces of meat, chicken, and fish, and we scarcely recognize whole fish or birds. We have become so obsessed with ease of preparation and speed that we have lost touch with the visceral appeal of cooking with—and eating—bones. No carcass to cut around, no whole fish to fillet awkwardly. When was the last time, other than Thanksgiving, you ate a meal that was carved at the table? Carving has become a lost art.
My passion for bones was rekindled during a wedding anniversary dinner several years ago, at a well-known Paris restaurant. The evening began tentatively, with my furtive glances at the man seated at the next table. No, I wasn’t plotting a change of mate, I was envious. Envious of this stranger’s bones: a plate of three towering marrow bones, each crowned with a different topping. I wanted those bones. Luckily, my husband is patient man who shares my passions. There was no need to stray, we celebrated with our own plate of bone towers. As we scooped their soft, creamy centers onto toast, dusting them with salt, I reflected sadly on how such a simple, indulgent pleasure was vanishing.
Not just marrow bones, but all bones are disappearing from our kitchens. As bones fade from our consciousness, the ways in which they enhance and improve the food we eat are forgotten and ignored. But bones play an integral role in the art of cookery, adding taste and texture while enhancing the presentation of the food. Think of osso buco, rack of lamb, fish grilled on the bone, spareribs, roast chicken.
The food of my childhood was enriched by bones. Every Friday morning, my mother and I crossed the butcher’s sawdust-covered floor, joking with the ensemble of jolly, big men in long white aprons. We passed the refrigerated counter, with its carefully arranged cuts of meat, and headed directly for a side room where whole animals hung suspended by metal hooks. Entranced, I watched as the butcher skillfully cut an animal into more familiar pieces. After much earnest discussion, we would leave with an assortment of meat with its bones. Once home, bacon bones were transformed into thick pea soup, while oxtail was slowly braised with red wine until the sauce was so rich and sticky it glued your lips together. Irish stew was made with lamb shoulder chops layered with thickly cut potatoes, which readily absorbed the lamb’s flavor and fat.
Once I began to travel, I discovered more exotic bones. A warming bowl of pho, beef soup, shared with three old Vietnamese women on a rainy, damp market day in Hue, brimmed with the aromas of long-cooked beef bones and star anise. In Italy, I relished a tiny songbird, bones and all, much to the horror of my companions. The little bird, impaled with toothpicks to a piece of toast, had been deep-fried until the bones were so soft they dissolved in my mouth. All that remained uneaten was its beak. In Berlin, fork-tender, juicy Eisbien (pork hock) crowned a massive platter of sauerkraut.
I am often in France, where bones are still revered. I eat lip-smacking pig’s feet, sucking the meat from the many small bones. In the spring on the banks of the Sâone, in Burgundy, tiny fish are passed quickly through flour and hot oil, eaten like French fries, their bones so tiny you simply crunch them up. The highlight of a stay in Provence is whole rougets grilled with wild fennel.
So appreciated worldwide, bones and many of the