I first met Pete’s grandmother when I was nineteen years old.
It was a scary moment – Pete had forewarned me that his father’s mother was the family matriarch, and ruled with an iron fist. She also had, I was told, a dim and fairly old-fashioned view about Asians taking over the country.
Lunch was just the three of us, and a couple of hours in, she pulled me aside and told me how outgoing Peter was in my company, and how pleased she was that I’d made him wear his suit jacket for the visit. By the end of the day, we were firm friends, and remained so until she died.
Grandma was incredibly sharp well into her later years – at eighty she was still punting on the stock market and swimming daily laps in her pool. She also baked amazing roast dinners. I once asked her how it was done, and I still smile when I remember her instructions:
“When I was younger, ” she said, “I had one of those automatic ovens, which was quite new at the time. I would prepare the roast – preferably a bolar blade – and set the timer on the oven. Then I would go sailing for the day, and when I came home, the roast would be ready.”
In actual fact, her rules for success were quite simple. She would roast the meat for hours and hours (there was no such things as “rare” in Grandma’s house), then rest it in a warming oven for as long as possible prior to serving. She was also adamant that the meat should never be poked or skewered until ready for carving, or the precious juices would be lost.
. . . . .
Recently, we defrosted a 1.75kg slab of Cape Grim Scotch to roast for dinner. At 2pm, we rubbed the meat with olive oil, salt and pepper, then browned it in a hot pan.
It was placed in our 24cm Emile Henry Flame casserole pot with a cup of water and the deglazed juices from the frying pan. The pot was covered, and baked in a 150C fan-forced oven for three and a half hours, during which time I went sailing. (Ok, no I didn’t. But does surfing the net count?)
At about 5.30pm, we poured off the liquid (which was used for gravy) and returned the covered pot to the oven for a further 30 minutes. (As you might have guessed, we were figuring this out on the fly, so I’m writing it down before we forget!)
After the four hour baking time, the covered pot was placed on an insulated trivet and allowed to rest for a further hour while we prepared the boiled new potatoes, roasted beets, gravy and coleslaw. The clay pot kept the meat beautifully warm as it rested.
It was without doubt the best roast we’d ever made – so tender that it shredded when we tried to carve it. The flavour from the slow cooked grassfed beef was astonishingly rich.
As we were eating dinner, Pete said, “you know what, babe? Grandma would have been proud.”
I’d like to think that’s true!
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