Beer Bread

I have three bottles of Warsteiner remaining in my refrigerator. And so I carefully measure the contents (One and a half cups, actually) of one chilled bottle and let them sit atop the stove until they are room temperature. It is autumn now, time for cooking in my home. Mirepoix is cut, the turnips and beets are quartered; purchased this morning from the West Side Market. These steps actually and lazily take hours because in fact I have hours. I decided to cook on the cheap tonight and so picked two fatty and marvelous plate roasts (a cut of beef) for $1.89 / lb. as opposed to the more expensive and lifeless steaks the public so crave. These things need love, need coaxing from a skilled hand. While they rest I roast the bones of a cow that was alive last week. This is my greatest homage to his life, that he should be made flavorful from front to back. "Honor those you cook" I once told my apprentices Those bones take on a familiar nutty smell, and the rich color I love. In a pot, cold water is added to them, as they take the slow road on a low flame to becoming stock, "fond de cuisine" as Careme’ and Escoffier said. The beer is suitably warm now, and goes in my prize: a bread machine bought by my wife three Christmases ago. Assorted other ingredients, flour, butter, caramelized onion, salt, sugar, and yeast to feed off the beer. (Something has to drink it!) Press "start." I roast half the mirepoix, and add it to the stock. Now the smells are making me alive, roasting beef, mirepoix, robustness! Though there are no canned tomatoes to pince’ neigh into the pot it’s of little concern as the roasting has gone flawlessly. Praise to God in heaven for this cow’s life, and the life of these vegetables, and yeast, equally important. When the plate roasts have bloomed I season them with kosher salt and pepper, and gently set them in a red hot roasting pan I’ve heated on my stove. They protest! PROTEST! But then comply like good children whose father knows how to steer them to becoming better men and women. I turn them until they are properly browned, then add the rest of the mirepoix, and the turnips, the beets. Some diced potatoes for texture, more Warsteiner, and Shiner Bock, from Texas. Hot stock is drained, and added to the mix, which I allow to simmer, before covering with foil and placing in the oven. The bones, though! I do not kill the bones! They survive the night as a second wetting, a second stock called "depulage" to make tomorrow’s stew. I have a healthy butternut squash, and could have seeded and roasted it. But then I’d have one texture, and richness needs a counterpart, antithesis, CRISPNESS! So, carefully as to not cut my fingers (as this requires force from my knife) I peel the resistant shell of the thing and cut the flesh into battonettes, "French fries," or "pommes frittes" as the French might say if these were, in fact, potatoes. I attempt to fry them straight up. No dice, they are soggy and limp. So I coat them with flour and black pepper, and get immediete results. The simplest part, sautee whole mushrooms in a hot skillet with garlic and butter. Now there is bread, warm fluffy, and with the heady smell of onions mixing with the smell of my roast, which I deposit on my plate, with the mushrooms, the turnips, potatoes and beets before topping it all artfully with the fried strips of squash with it’s burnt - orange color. I dip slices of the beer bread into the wonderful liquid and relax. A man should be satisfied with his work.