Braised Short Ribs

The other day, I pressed "send" and off went a new manuscript to our agent who'll send it on to our editor who'll then send it on to a copy editor, a photographer, designers, publicists, and the whole moiling mass that is publishing. It takes a village.

Back home, I'm always a little undone when a book's finished: so many filaments have spooled out of my brain for so many months. For replenishment, Bruce sets to making batches of comfort food.

Which means I've been living in braise heaven for the last few days. And the best of the bunch so far? Short ribs: those cheeky, sweet, decadent, gorgeous hunks of meat-on-the-bone that need a long bath in the broth before they're ready for the table.

Here's how he did it:

He started out frying up about 1/2 pound diced-up bacon in a big, heavy, cast-iron, French casserole, one that'll eventually go right in the oven. You know, one of those IRA-emptiers that you buy at the outlet mall, lug home, and curse yourself because you have to store the thing. Listen, they're totally worth it for this dish. 

Once the bacon was crisp, he fished it out and put it in a bowl, then tied 4 pounds of short ribs in a couple places with butchers' twine and seared them in the rendered bacon fat. He didn't stint. In other words, he didn't gray the meat. He got it good and crusty. (These, by the way, were cross-cut short ribs from Allen and Robin Cockerline's grass-fed beef farm. To know more, go here.)

He transferred the short ribs to the bowl with the bacon beside the stove. (Dreydl and I had to control ourselves from gnawing like rabid squirrels). Then he tossed three sliced carrots, a couple sliced celery ribs, a couple big handfuls of frozen pearl onions, and a couple minced garlic cloves into the bacon fat in the pot still over the heat.

He let the veggies go until nicely softened at the edges, stirring once in a while; then he tossed in and warmed up 2 teaspoons dried marjoram, 2 teaspoons dried oregano, 2 teaspoons dried rosemary, 2 teaspoons dried thyme, 1/2 teaspoon ground allspice, 1/2 teaspoon ground black pepper, and a bay leaf. Yes, all dried herbs and spices. This stuff's going to braise for an eternity; the dried herbs soften over time, releasing their oils slowly and so standing up better to the incessant heat.

Once the herbs were aromatic, he poured in 2 cups red wine and let it come to a full boil, scraping to get every browned bit of crunchy goodness into the sauce. He nestled the short ribs back into the pan and poured in enough beef broth to come about halfway up the spare ribs (about 3 cups) and let that come to a simmer. More important than the volume for a good braise is the height of the liquid. The meat must sit halfway in it. So volume measurements are mere suggestions, like traffic lights in Manhattan.

While that came up to a simmer, he sautéed 12 ounces sliced mushrooms in 2 tablespoons unsalted butter in a skillet, let the mushrooms give off a lot of their liquid, deglazed the skillet with 2 tablespoons Cognac (flamed it, too, but he's a pro), and poured that into the pot.

He shoved the whole thing into a preheated 325F oven and I tried not to whine like a second-grader for the next 3 1/2 hours as he occasionally stirred the pot and otherwise went about his business. Knitting! How can anyone knit when there are short ribs in the oven?

At the end, he stirred in a little tomato paste (maybe 2 tablespoons) and a generous dash of Worcestershire sauce (yes, my own). Melted it all into the sauce and then dished it up over mashed potatoes for me--and a weekend houseguest, a long-time friend, the best comfort around.

Sheesh. My brain definitely unfrazzled as I sipped a wintery cab blend and let those meltingly tender short ribs do their work. Listen, if that doesn't heal what aches you, you're in need of stronger stuff than we're pushing.