Just about the only cut of meat I haven’t cooked was short ribs. (That’s a complete untruth, there are many, many cuts of meat I haven’t cooked yet but slow-cooked ribs is the one that I fancied most).
As we got our first frost of the winter today I thought I would celebrate by writing up this bad boy from a week or so ago.
One moment please, I’m just going outside to shoot the annoying person setting off some fireworks…
…okay he isn’t going to be doing that anymore. Back to the frost scenario. This year Autumn (or ‘fall’ as some say) has been the warmest ever (some bright spark could probably bore us to death with meteorological statistics saying it was warmer in 1934, but I don’t care, it was warm, like 25 centigrade in October warm).
And you know, things go a bit weird when the weather does funny things in Britain. Wearing t-shirts and shorts in the last week of October just looks strange. Its not right.
So when it got a bit chilly a week or so ago I headed off to the local butchers (local as in 20 minutes drive) to get me some ribs. Now the butchers are usually a jovial pair, all ‘Sir’ and ‘Lovely cut that’ and all that crap. But that day they were not in a good mood.
‘Have you got any short ribs?’
‘Well we have ribs, pork or beef?’
‘Beef’ (How was I to know to make them short they just cut them down the middle)
Can you cut them down the middle?’
‘I can cut them anyway you want (slight pause) sir’.
‘Fine, do that’. I turned round, annoyed, and stared at some pickles, almost wanting to walk out but wanting those ribs more.
Anyway the old guy cheered up and started recommending all sorts of methods of preparation. But I wasn’t listening. I had spotted a small but very dark 42 day aged fillet steak. I chose that too, for another day…
Back home I put my plan into action. I intended marinading the ribs and then slow cooking them in wine. Lots of wine.