Yesterday, upon postponement of our midday amble amidst a cathedral’s canopy due to the dowdiest of freshly fallen autumn afternoons, a cozy dinner might divert the chilly woes of premature dusks. Noting that a fresh fall ousted a sapped summer, I bought a trimmed pork loin from my butcher and fresh root veggies. Antecedently and focusing on forecasts, I foretold of a cagey fall; its entrance behind a skedaddling summer!
Hedging my premonition of summer at noon pursued by the sharp, shivery, and grim character of a wily autumn, I remained home with my loin; I would prepare a French Provençal pork loin braised in red wine and entrapped by fresh, roasted autumn root vegetables.
The grievous and ghastly responsibility of restoring purity and sublimity to a kitchen struck by volley’s of mortar fire, would be nothing short of miraculous (or, if no miracles are available, allot three hours)! Having peculiar habits when cleansing my knives and cutting boards, only I appreciate and comprehend the intricacy of the five separate operations which assures a chef that his tools are prepared for their next challenge.
But what I truly enjoy most, more than double-butterflying the roast, more than preparing the veggies, more than effortlessly carving the roast, even more than savoring my meal. What I enjoy most is soaping up the cutting boards, then watching the suds as I’m rinsing.
It resembles the foam, the final stretch of a wave on a sandy beach. It’s that image, barefoot in sand and retreating ocean which makes all else rewarding.