Short Ribs

“Let’s have short ribs,” suggested Mary when I mentioned it was about time for our writing group to meet, “at your house.” 

I lifted my eyebrows and shrugged non-committally. “We should have it at my house. It’s been a minute.” 

“I’ll send the text,” she offered. 

Although I didn’t promise, I did plan to make short ribs. I’d made them once before for the group many years ago. Then, I’d seen beautiful boneless short ribs on sale at the grocery store, and they seemed like the thing to cook. I had adapted a braised lamb shank recipe, and in my memory, they were effortlessly delicious: perfectly tender in a savory sauce enriched with mascarpone cheese. 

That’s what I was planning this time, too, but I decided to order the meat from a local farm that delivers dairy, meat, and produce. Their beef is sustainably and humanely raised and very flavorful. Two frozen blocks of bone-in short ribs were delivered last week, and the first part of the recipe was make-ahead, so I thawed the ribs a few days ago and planned the first cook for yesterday. 

I knew I would have to cut the ribs to separate them myself, but I wasn’t prepared for the thickness of the fat cap on them. Rather than marbled, they were layered, and each rib had a slightly different proportion of meat to fat and bone. When I thought about it, I knew that such irregularity is to be expected when you source your meat from a farm. Unlike in the grocery store, all of these ribs came from a single cow. Because of the sheer volume they supply, grocery meat distributors can package meat by like size and shape by trimming and sorting through cuts from many animals. 

There is an adage recommending giving a task you really need to be done to a busy person. The notion is that the busy are more efficient and productive. Accurate or not, the folks in charge of education seem to have taken that one to heart: as much talk as there is about taking things off teachers' proverbial plates, in the years that I taught, our responsibilities were regularly compounded. The time it took to do my job as well as I wanted to was one of the main reasons I retired. 

As unsure as I am about the busy person maxim, I have found that the inverse is true, at least for me. The less I have to do? The less I get done, especially since retiring. No deadlines, means, well, no deadlines. But with the actual date of writing group fast approaching, I found myself with a hard to-do list, and spent yesterday catching up on the housekeeping I’d been putting off since we cut our cleaning lady’s visits to once a month. Even so, I did not feel stressed, because? I’m retired! 

Depending who you talk to, or what recipe you read, short ribs are either one of the easiest dishes to make or else they are a somewhat tricky entree to pull off. The conflict lies in the cut itself. Short ribs are cut from the first five ribs of the cow, which is also in the chuck section, or the side of the chest. That area has a lot of muscle and fat, so the meat is tough, but marbled with fat and collagen that break down and tenderize it with long, slow cooking. That’s why most recipes call for braising short ribs-- just pop them in a low oven or slow cooker, set the timer for several hours, and voila!

The tricky part is this: if you don’t cook the ribs long enough, they are super-tough and chewy, but if you are overdone, they can be cottony and dry. The exact timing can vary, too, depending on the ribs you get. All told, however, the braising liquid can be forgiving, so overcooking is less of a problem. 

It was around six last night when I butchered the ribs and began searing them in my new cast iron braiser, all the while cooking our dinner for that night, too. “Are you going to have enough time tonight?” Heidi asked. “Weren’t you going to try to do those earlier?” 

“Yes and yes!” I answered confidently, straining the bone broth I had simmered all afternoon for the braise. “The recipe says they only need to cook an hour and a half tonight.” And that’s all I gave them. Even though they seemed tough when I pierced them with a fork, the recipe also called for cooling them overnight in the braising liquid, and I was hopeful that would do the trick. 

This morning, when I geared up for phase two of the dish, the short ribs were still very tough and chewy, even after a night in the broth and an hour in the marinade. There was much more fat than I remembered, too, but that was easily discarded. I hoped they would tenderize in the short cooking time remaining, but I was disappointed 20 minutes later when I checked. Uh oh. It was time to improvise. 

And I did. Another hour in the oven seemed to do the trick, although I would have to tweak the sauce a bit. Fortunately, I had made another bit of beef stock with the bones I’d lifted from the ribs. And there was the mascarpone, standing by to pull it all together. Dinner was saved, but was it because I was busy or because I had all that time?

It's a Twin Thing

Maybe it's because I spent so long in middle school, or maybe it's why I spent so long in middle school, but I kind of dig kid lit. We needn't debate its comparative merits here, but let's agree it has some: there is some great writing out there intended for young audiences.

Anyhoo, this morning when I was browsing through one of the several emails I get from folks recommending books to me, my attention was captured by Let it Glow, a collaborative middle years novel co-written by Marissa Meyer and Joanne Levy. Meyer I was familiar with, having read both her Lunar Chronicles and Archenemies series, and the book was billed as a "charming, Parent Trap-esque holiday romp," so how could I resist?

I downloaded the audiobook and listened to the tale of twins separated at birth as I cleaned house today, and it was delightful until... the girls decided to switch places! Oh, sure, I should have expected it, especially with the blurb and all, but really? Why would anyone put themselves through such an awkward experience?

I taught many sets of twins over my career, several of them identical. In the early days, it was school policy to put those siblings on separate middle school teams to give them time and space to develop their individuality. Later on? Parent requests to have their kids in the same classes took precedence. Their reasoning? Convenience. It was an extra layer of effort to keep track of different assignments and expectations. 

But back before that, I taught a student named Patricia who had a twin, Anne on the other team. Even though my best friends when I was in middle school were identical twins who were as easy for me to tell apart as anyone else in the world, I have never been able to consistently and definitively identify the twins I've taught, and these kids were no exception. 

I taught Patricia, so I didn't know her sister, but when they were together, it was only the glimmer of familiarity in Patricia's expression that clued me in. (That, or I remembered what outfit she was wearing that day.) There were times in class, though, when Patricia seemed kind of out of it, and I wondered if she had some attention or focusing issues. Most of the time, though, she was on target, and just another of the 21 students in the room.

Years after the twins left middle school, I ran into one of their friends out in the community. After we caught up on what she had been doing, I asked if she stayed in touch with any of her friends from our class. Sure enough, she mentioned Patricia and Ann and filled me in on their lives, too. 

Then she laughed. "Did you know they used to switch places all the time in middle school?" she asked.

I shook my head. "Really?" I answered. "I had no idea." 

She chuckled again. "They were so bad!" she said.

Later, after we parted ways, I thought about the girls trading places and I realized that all those times when Patricia seemed lost and uncomfortable, it was probably because it was her sister. I got a knot in my stomach just thinking about it. 

Then I shrugged and sighed. I hope it was worth it.

Deja Vu Therapy

I spent some time poking around the archives of this blog this morning. I started by reviewing my writing from past Novembers, in search of my thoughts and observations on Thanksgiving and food, but what I found to be more timely and helpful were my thoughts and observations on the election in 2016. In fact, reading what I wrote then kind of made me feel better now.

See what you think:

Blue State Blues
November 8, 2016

I confess that I did not sleep well at all last night, and when I finally rose this morning, I was dreading the day.

The pouring rain in the gray dawn of this morning seemed like an appropriate contrast to the brilliant sunshine and autumn-colored promise of yesterday. It was also appropriate that the lesson in my English today was on composing belief statements in support of our upcoming essay-writing unit. Not surprisingly, our diverse student body had plenty of belief statements to go around today, and they really wanted to talk about them.

"What did you think of the election?" they asked me.

"I was surprised by the results," I said neutrally.

"Were you sad?" They were definitely looking for an ally or an enemy.

"I know a lot of people were disappointed," I answered, silently counting myself among them, "but a lot of people were happy, too."

And then I shrugged, thinking of myself tossing and turning last night as my phone glowed with update after devastating update. Could it really have been fewer than 24 hours ago that I was hoping the other side would turn their attention to what unites us rather than what divides us in support of a Clinton administration? Could I do the same now?

"I'm open-minded," I told them, "and I hope for the best."

Against the Wind
November 20, 2016

We braved steady winds of 20-30 mph (with gusts of 50!) to bike-share around the tidal basin today. Well, Kyle and I pedaled while Heidi and a friend ran-- kudos to those two! We had the wind at our backs all the way from the FDR where we picked up our bikes until we made the turn toward the Jefferson.

There we had to laugh as, spinning our pedals as quickly as we could, we nearly stood still on the asphalt path. And once we stopped to say hello to Heidi who was chugging along from the other direction, it was impossible to even start riding again. So we turned in our bikes at the station conveniently located there, and spent a few minutes with one of the founding fathers.

As we stood in the rotunda, I remembered reading that the huge bronze image of Jefferson had intentionally been placed in the direct line of sight of the statue of Alexander Hamilton on the north side of the Treasury Building, so that he could keep an eye on his fiercest political rival.

I took a moment to line up my view with his, but although I could only make out the roof of treasury, I got a clear look at the White House. It was practically glowing in the midafternoon sun, and I confess that my heart swelled more than a little at the symbolism.

It's been a hard couple of weeks for me as I have wrestled with finding the appropriate way to respond to an impending Trump presidency. In all that I have heard and read and thought, my brother's advice has guided me most: don't protest the election or any abstract idea of the man, rather speak out against specific actions and policies that you feel are wrong and work for what you think is right.

Returning home I was greeted by some breaking news: Donald Trump confirms that wife Melania and son Barron will stay in New York after the presidential inauguration.

The president's family not living in the White House?

 I think that choice is wrong.

Extreme Waiting

I blithely swung by Trader Joe's on my way home from another errand this afternoon, planning to dash in for a few items I needed for dinner. Perhaps the packed parking lot should have been my first clue that my idea was not original, but I got a space right away when someone pulled out. The traffic in the produce section was weird; many shoppers were milling more than usual. 

It wasn't until I turned the corner at the back of the store that I realized they were in the line to check out. Sixty people or more wrapped the entire interior perimeter of the store, waiting for their turn at the register. There were literally more people waiting than shopping.

I could have left, but I am always impressed by the efficiency of the check-out process there, and so I quickly finished my shopping and headed to the back of the line. Out of curiosity, I launched the stopwatch on my watch and then started watching my fellow waiters. Although there were plenty of wide eyes as folks realized just how long the line was, it seemed like everyone was as patient as I was, and in 12 minutes and 47 seconds, I was on my way out to my car.

Extreme Weather

Wait! What is that weird wet stuff falling from the sky? Could it be our record-setting 38-day drought has finally broken? This, after September nearly set a record for consecutive rainy days. Fingers crossed, we have a couple of record-setting blizzards in our near future!

Net Gain

Our cat Tibby is one of those plant-eating felines who can't leave anything green alone. As such, we have to hide or place any plants or cut flowers out of her reach. Over the years, that's become more challenging: our place is only so big, and Tibby's pretty adept at finding and reaching almost anything. 

There is one place that's an exception, though. The downstairs bathroom is always closed, so we have taken to putting any bouquets we receive in there. To be honest, it's kind of awesome, really. Fresh flowers in the powder room are a lovely touch.

Kids Only

Heidi was home today, and so we walked Lucy together. The three of us ambled amiably through the back greens and commons of the neighborhood, away from the streets and traffic. There are little playgrounds back there, near the pools and tennis courts, and we saw groups of children playing unaccompanied by adults, which is a rare sight in this area. 

Not surprisingly, the kids were doing and saying ridiculous things: shoving each other over a liter of Pelligrino, arguing over a swing, playing mean princess in a log cabin-like structure, and riding bikes recklessly down embankments. Even so, we were more charmed than alarmed by this display of untamed behavior. Both of us recognized it from our own, more free-range childhoods.

My only regret is that we were there at all, because each time we drew near, the kids either stopped what they were doing or stared defiantly at us to see if we would intervene.