...all about to go in the pot. Not the pomegranates. They're for eating after supper, while I watch a movie. The olives are for the Frenchman's drink. The chrysanthemums won't die.
Pot roast is a once-a-year thing, somehow. But in this hemisphere from now until, oh, March, it is pot roast season. And, of course, Variations on a Leftover (in C) follow.
It is a meat eater's dish. No disguising it. And pot roast is not pretty, in the way that a perfectly seared steak can be. Pot roast is grey. But it's all about texture, and scent, and flavour. The herbs, the juice, the sweet carrot, the rich onion or shallot, the herbal celery.
My recipe for the pot roast I made recently is next door, at 66 Square Feet (the Food). It may tread on some pot roast toes. There's no flour, no cream of anything soup, there is wine.
But it tasted very good.
All supervised, I see, by His Highness, from his sleepery throne.
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