Suddenly, we’re eating dinner in the dark. Even after almost six years in Ireland, I’m still surprised by how time and the seasons change here, gradually and then all at once. One evening we’re eating salad on the patio and it seems like the very next night we’re wearing jumpers around the dinner table. Heck, before you know it, it’ll be Christmas.
I’m not complaining, mind. After 30 years of living where the weather never seemed to change and time stood still, a little seasonal drama is welcome.
When autumn weather starts to fall, the first thing I usually do is break out my stew pots. Why is it when the days get shorter, the cooking gets longer?
As the temperatures chill and the wind starts to blow, I find deep comfort in having something stewing on the stove for a few hours. It’s the process of cooking I find reassuring as much as the final dish – when the weather is scuttery, a long potter in the kitchen is just the ticket.
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And the results rarely disappoint. That long, slow cooking pays rewards. It’s a reminder that time is sometimes as much an ingredient as anything else.
In a good stew, the flavours are so intertwined that the various elements meld into a single, deep savour. It’s like a harmonic in music, where two played notes combine to make a third overtone that seems to come from nowhere.
There are no hard and fast rules about what a stew is or how to make it. You’ll find them made with meat or with poultry, or even with fish and with vegetables. They can be thick, or they can be thin.
The only thing they all have in common is that everything is cooked with just enough liquid to tenderise and create a delicious sauce at the end.
Stews are dishes that are assembled step-by-step, kind of like building a house. And once you understand the basic blueprint, the rest of the dish is almost infinitely flexible. First you lay the foundation. Then comes the main structure. Finally the finishing touches.
The foundation for most stews is a mixture of slowly sautéed vegetables – depending on the dish, it might be the classic combination of carrots, onions and celery. There could be some peppers in there. Probably at least a little bit of tomato. Usually some pork product, too – bacon, chorizo, pancetta, prosciutto. Almost certainly garlic.
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Cook them slowly, covered, over low heat – the pros call this “sweating”, which is a not-very-attractive name for an essential step. You want the vegetable base to have softened and just turned slightly golden. No dark spots – scorch the onion and you might as well start over. Patience pays off here; take your time.
While the foundation is slowly cooking, prepare the meat. Cut it into the right size chunks – the bigger they are the longer they’ll take to cook, but the more luxurious they’ll seem when they’re done. Dice the meat small and it will all but disappear in the sauce, leaving just a rich essence. Whenever possible, I like to use meat on the bone. The tough connective tissue melts during long, moist cooking to add velvety body to the sauce.
You may want to brown the meat to deepen the flavour. Do this in a separate skillet to keep the base from scorching, then transfer it to the stewpot with a slotted spoon, leaving behind as much fat as you can. You can flour the meat before browning it, or after. Or not at all. The flour simply acts to thicken the braising liquid.
Now comes the most critical step: adding the liquid. Use wine, broth, water, whatever you like. The key thing is adding just enough to almost – but not quite – cover the meat. The tops of the meat should be just peeking out; an old Cajun cook I knew said it should look like “alligators in the swamp”.
Bring the liquid to a bare simmer uncovered on top of the stove. The bubbles should be rising lazily, not in a hurry. Give it a stir and pop on the cover. It can continue cooking on top of the stove if you like, but I prefer to use a slow oven to keep a more even heat. Don’t let it cook too fast; the meat will toughen and dry out.
Now it’s time for a nap. It’s going to take at least an hour and probably more depending on the meat. You’ll know when it’s done because a knife will slip in easily. If the meat is on the bone, it should be ready to fall off.
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The meat may be done at this point, but you’re not. One last very important step remains. That’s seasoning. Taste the sauce and see if it needs salt. It probably will.
But don’t stop there. Even if you’ve made the stew right, the flavour might seem a little dull. To really appreciate the deep rich flavours you’ve developed, there’s one more seasoning you need to consider.
That’s acidity. Because of the stew’s richness of texture and flavour, usually a dash of something tart is needed to bring everything into focus. Depending on the stew, a little vinegar or a squeeze of lemon will enliven what might initially have seemed a dull dish.
It doesn’t take much, so add it a teaspoon or so at a time, stirring and tasting in between, until you hit that “Aha” moment when everything clicks into place.
Remember that this final seasoning isn’t about a last-minute addition of flavour – there should already be plenty of that – but about accentuating what you’ve already so carefully taken time to build.
