best pot roast – Blue Kitchen

Flavorful, inexpensive beef chuck roast, braised for hours in a low oven with beer, juniper berries, onion, garlic, potatoes and carrots, is the very definition of comfort food on a winter evening. Recipe below.

Beef Pot Roast with Beer and Juniper Berries

WHEN THE FIRST REAL SNOWSTORM OF THE SEASON IS PREDICTED, most people stock up on sidewalk salt. I bought a chuck roast.

The snow began falling in the morning, not heavy but persistent. I happened to be working from home, and I watched the snow coating first the lawns, trees and bushes, then the sidewalks and the street outside the study window. I also kept an impatient eye on the clock, eager to start cooking our first pot roast of the year. Continue reading “Berry, beery satisfying: Beef Pot Roast with Beer and Juniper Berries” →

Indian biryani curry paste gives an exotic twist to classic American pot roast. Recipe below.

It’s funny the things that stick in your brain. I routinely forget to pick up the dry cleaning or that we’re out of cottage cheese or that I was supposed to get the oil changed. But I still remember the day we talked about food in my grade school French class with Mademoiselle [okay, I forget her name too—something French, since she really was from France].

She, being from France and probably wondering exactly how she’d ended up teaching a bunch of squirmy American eleven-year-olds in St. Louis, Missouri, began to wax nostalgic about French food. We, being squirmy American eleven-year-olds from St. Louis, Missouri, were horrified. Sauces were involved. Shallots. Innards. Finally, one of the girls in the class cracked, saying something insightful, like, “Ewwwww.”

Mlle. [Je-ne-sais-quoi] rolled her eyes and said, “Ah, yes. For Americans, everything must taste like fried chicken.”

Despite the fact that, unlike all my other teachers, she was actually young and pretty and spoke with that wonderful accent, I was offended. What the hell was wrong with fried chicken? Being eleven, hell had entered my vocabulary, albeit under my breath unless I was around trusted fellow hell sayers like Carl Halford and Mike Prokopf.

Besides, didn’t we Americans have pizza? Okay, I had never tried it, but my brother Mike had eaten it at Little Charlie’s house and pronounced it good. And didn’t we have chop suey? This ersatz Chinese delicacy hadn’t yet been widely outed as an American invention, so it counted. Okay, I hadn’t personally tried that either—Mike and I always ordered hamburgers when our parents forced us to go to some sketchy Chinese dive downtown.

But that was then, this is now. Continue reading “Blue Kitchen: The mysterious… Pot Roast?” →