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Food and drink: All gone to pot

From roast to work of art, right on your stove-top

As winter's cold fingers start to poke their boney way into our lives and comfort food seems like a good consolation, I highly recommend turning to pot.

Cooking a roast in a pot, that is. For at this very moment, I have a nice round roast of bison, maybe five or six pounds, simmering away downstairs in a nest of slow-cooked onions and garlic, peppers and tomatoes, thyme, basil, oregano, a little chardonnay left over from a dinner party, a little balsamic vinegar that might have taken 70 pounds of grapes to make a single cup, and some chipotle pepper puree that will give the whole dish a hint of smokiness reminiscent of burning leaves.

By the time it's done, maybe eight, 10 or even 12 hours from now, my rich, red-brown pot roast steeped in flavour will be a work of art, where the whole merges into something greater than the sum of its parts. Pot roast à la Glenda.

I'm a mighty fan of pot roasts, bison or otherwise. In fact, I love all those cheaper, tougher and - note - tastier cuts of meat that form the backbone of what variously gets called peasant food, country food or just plain food all over the world.

Pulled pork from Louisiana, machaca beef from Chihuahua, a nice little pot au feu from France all centre on long-simmering meats mingling with aromatic vegetables, herbs and spices.

In this case, the central attraction came from a bison ranch near Quesnel. Given bison meat is less fatty than beef and the round is about the toughest muscle on the beast, coming as it does from those earth-pounding hind legs, it really might be 12 hours before it's done.

And that's the beauty of pot roasts - they change your sense of time. Think slow food with leg shackles on. And that's okay, because right now my house is filling with delicious aromas. As for that warm pot on the stove, it stands as symbol for glowing hearth albeit with no embers to keep an eye on, no ashes to clean out.

So how do you create your own pot roast extravaganza? If you like avoiding greasy splatter clean-up, use a pot with high walls and a bottom big enough to allow about two inches of space all round your roast. If you don't have a high-walled pot, make do, but you will need a lid.

I invariably like my pot roast browned. Browning is easy if you use the plastic-bag shake-and-bake method of coating your meat with flour. For my six-pounder I used about a quarter cup of flour seasoned with salt, pepper and savory herbs, as mentioned above.

Heat a couple of tablespoons of oil, or bacon drippings if you have some, or a combo thereof in the bottom of the pot on medium heat, then mix your flour and seasonings in the bottom of a decent hole-free plastic bag.

Rinse and pat dry your roast, place it in the bag of seasoned flour and shake it all around, pressing the flour into your roast. Ideally your oil won't have started to smoke yet, and will be nice and hot to brown the meat. Leave it on that side till you've got a rich brown colour, then flip it and brown it on all its sides to match.

This isn't some make-work exercise you're doing. Browning reactions, as they are called, are chemical changes that produce whole new flavours. Meats, dark beers, bread crusts, chocolate and coffee all share a similar browning reaction when cooked, a reaction we humans universally love the taste of.

Technically, you should remove your pot roast from its pot after it's browned and slow cook a cup or two of chopped onion or leek and a little (or lot) of garlic, then add the meat back in. But if you're a lazy cook like me, leave the meat in the pot and cook your veggies right around it.

You can also add carrots, peppers, even a chopped up turnip or some cabbage. Let the veggies cook down somewhat before you add your liquid: a cup or two of fresh chopped tomatoes, and/or some canned ones, leftover wine, dark beer or some broth will do to raise the level about a third of the way up your meat.

Then season it all to taste. Trust your instincts about what you want to add to bring out the best in your pot roast. Start gingerly if you aren't sure - the thyme, basil, oregano combo is a pretty safe bet, and you'll need salt and something acidic like a good vinegar or lemon juice.

Then turn your heat down very low until you get an even simmer and let the magic begin.

Remember, this is a work in progress. As your pot roast cooks, you will be tasting, observing and adjusting. I do something of a dance with the lid, starting with it on, then after a few hours maybe removing it, depending on how much liquid is in the pot and how much I want to reduce it. If it gets too dry, add more liquid of choice and put the lid back on, going back and forth, until you've got a thick reduced sauce that's just right. The veggies will virtually disappear.

Think of it like this: you and your pot roast are embarking on something of a journey together, one closer to art than science, and one with no set ETA.

Fear not the vagaries of pot roasts: they are very forgiving so you'll not ruin anything. But do remember to periodically spoon some of the sauce over top, and flip the thing every so often, A., so it doesn't cook too much on one side and, B., so all sides soak in the sauce. Democracy rules in the pot roast pot.

If all of this sounds a bit onerous, it's not. On a crisp fall day, while you're puttering around, it becomes the perfect counterpoint to whatever else you're doing, or not, providing a fragrant backdrop like background music, only for the other senses.

Yes, a slow cooker can provide a viable and, some would argue, more carefree option but it will never afford quite as intimate a connection with your new friend, the pot roast. Enjoy it for supper. Slice it up for lunch or brekkie. It won't let you down no matter how bleak things get.

 

Glenda Bartosh is an award-winning freelance writer who likes her pots with thick bottoms.