Julia Child, if you’re looking down from your celestial kitchen, look away, dear. I’m making a brisket.
I’ve always wanted to say that, “I’m making a brisket.”
I am a carniphobe, intimidated by meat. Roast not, braise not. Man versus meat? Not a contender. I love to eat it, when someone else cooks it. But I don’t cook it. Ever.
So why the brisket? I love the word. Brisket. It’s crisp, it’s fun to say (perhaps because it rhymes with biscuit?). Brisket is home, it’s comfort, it’s a special occasion. Women who make brisket are respected.
When brisket comes up in conversation it is intimate and holy, “my mother’s brisket.” Whispered at a Shiva, “she made a fabulous brisket.”
Just this week, The Big Bang Theory had the guys stranded in the woods without food. As they were getting desperate, Howard Wolowitz exclaimed, “my mother put an I-love-you brisket in my backpack!”
The next day, coincidentally the first day of Passover, I was in front of the meat case hearing voices. I think it was Trader Joe himself, dream music in the background, “Brisket!” “Monica, you can do it, you can be the woman behind the fabulous brisket.”
So I caved and there it sits, on the bottom shelf in the fridge, waiting to be prepared, fearing it will perish. Better get out the, uh, what kind of pan do you use?
Note: Word Nymph shalt not blog on Sundays. Hope to see you Monday.