Feb. 11th, 2016

desperance: (Default)
...except that these days, actually, one does.

It was one of those stray thoughts I had, as I stood for ever over the stove, stirring and stirring as the onions slowly darkened in the pan - "Is there no way to do this in the slow cooker, bethinks I...?"

Yes, of course there is. Slice onions, put in slow cooker. Add a glug of oil and a shake of salt, toss 'em about a bit, start the cooker on low. Stir every now and then, as you pass by. Ten hours later? Caramelised onions, yup.

Which makes onion-soup-for-the-masses a far simpler proposition. Do that, with five or six pounds of sweet onions; then proceed through the portals of your favourite recipe. I default as by nature to "Mastering the Art of French Cooking", but actually this one's more by way of being Californian Onion Soup. I looked at the amount of delicious oniony liquid that still lingered with the onions, because slow cooker; and was opposed to stirring flour straight into that, because that way lies lumpiness, which is deprecated hereabouts. So I made a separate roux with half a stick of butter and three heaped tablespoons of flour, and stirred that in. And then I had a litre of something in the freezer that was labelled "Beef Soup Stock", in my own hand, and I have no idea. So I defrosted that and gazed at it in bafflement, and stirred it in anyway; and there was half a litre of something else called "Beef Onion Soup Stock", which ditto ditto. And then there was half a bottle of abandoned sweet red wine in the fridge, which nobody was going to drink, but hadn't spoiled, so. In it went.

And now the result of all that is back in the slow cooker and simmering slowly, and I think it'll be grand.

And I'll bake a loaf of refrigerator bread (yes, I know, I promised you a recipe: it'll come, it will) and then I'll roast a chicken; which I will tear apart with my bare hands and toss with toasted bread and leaves and a lemony garlicky dressing, and call that salad. I have a mustardy potato salad too. And Cathyn's bringing a pie, which I am training my Americans to call pudding as all desserts should be. (Yes, I know there is a more specific meaning of "pudding" in English, and a way more specific and deeply wrong meaning in American, and nevertheless: this is the tradition I was raised in, that the sweet course was not called "sweet" nor "dessert" but pudding. Baby steps, people, baby steps. I shall reclaim this land for the Empire yet. Little do they realise how insidious I am, mwahaha.)

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