So, the Irish Beef Stew turned out pretty good. Here's the recipe (from Country Woman magazine):
8 bacon strips, diced
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 tsp pepper
3 lbs beef stew meat, cut into 1-inch cubes
1 lb whole fresh mushrooms, quartered
3 medium leeks (white portion only), chopped
2 medium carrots, chopped
1/4 cup chopped celery
1 tablespoon canola oil
4 garlic cloves, minced
1 tablespoon tomato paste
4 cups beef broth
1 cup dark stout beer or additional beef broth (I used Guiness)
2 bay leaves
1 tsp dried thyme
1 tsp drived parlsey flakes
1 tsp drived rosemary, crushed
2 lbs Yukon Gold potatoes, cut into 1-inch cubes
2 tablespoons cornstarch
2 tablespoons cold water
1 cup frozen peas
1. In a soup kettle, cook bacon over medium heat until crisp. Using a slotted spoon, remove to paper towels. In a large resealable plastic bag, combine flour, salt and pepper. Add beef, a few pieces at a time, and shake to coat. Brown beef in the bacon drippings. Remove and set aside.
2. In the same pan, saute mushrooms, leeks, carrots and celery in oil until tender. Add garlic; saute 2 minutes longer. Stir in tomato paste until blended. Add the broth, beer, bay leaves, thyme, parsley and rosemary. Return beef and bacon to pan. Bring to boil. Reduce heat; cover and simmer for 2 hours.
3. Add potatoes. Return to boil. Reduce heat; cover and simmer 1 hour longer or until potatoes are tender. Combine cornstarch and water until smooth; stir into stew. Bring to boil; cook and stir for 2 minutes or until thickened. Add peas; heat through. Discard bay leaves. Yield: 15 (small) servings
Okay, Steve -- who doesn't like stew -- said this wasn't bad but lose the mushrooms (he didn't like their unexpected texture in the stew) and add corn (he likes corn in everything it seems). Along the way in cooking, I added some water because it seemed to not be enough fluid in general and I added salt to taste. I'll probably make this again for St. Patrick's Day (my day!).
My biggest tempation today is the desire to keep reading SILENT ON THE MOOR by Deanna Raybourn, 3rd of three in series featuring Lady Julia Grey, recently widowed, in 1880s London. It is just lovely and I hate putting it down. Here is a description:
I've always pictured Brisbane to look like Hugh Jackman sort of as Wolverine but slightly more civilized (mmmm). Their relationship, while solving mysteries, is a lot of go-away-go-away-come-here-come-here-go-away-go-away, etc. The book is just published and has 480 pages. Here is an excerpt:Despite his admonitions to stay away, Lady Julia arrives in Yorkshire to find Nicholas Brisbane, private inquiry agent, as remote and maddeningly attractive as ever. Cloistered together, they share the moldering house with the proud but impoverished remnants of an ancient family—the sort that keeps their bloodline pure and their secrets close. Lady Allenby and her daughters, dependent upon Brisbane and devastated by their fall in society, seem adrift on the moor winds, powerless to change their fortunes. But poison does not discriminate between classes….
A mystery unfolds from the rotten heart of Grimsgrave, one Lady Julia may have to solve alone, as Brisbane appears inextricably tangled in its heinous twists and turns. But blood will out, and before spring touches the craggy northern landscape, Lady Julia will have uncovered a Gypsy witch, a dark rider and a long-buried legacy of malevolence and evil.
The author's website can be found at http://www.deannaraybourn.com/. If you like a touch of gothic to your historical mysteries, this is a good series.Julia Grey, I would rather see you hanged than watch any sister of mine go haring off after a man who will not have her," my brother Bellmont raged. "And Portia, I am thoroughly appalled that you would not only condone such behaviour, but abet it by accompanying Julia. You are her elder sister. You ought to set an example." I sighed and stared longingly at the whisky decanter. Portia and I had known that the summons to our father's London townhouse was a thinly-veiled ambush, but I do not think either of us had expected the attack to be so quick, nor so brutal. We had scarcely taken our seats in Father's comfortable library before our eldest brother launched into a tirade against our proposed visit to Yorkshire. Father, ensconced behind his vast mahogany desk, said nothing. His expression was inscrutable behind his half-moon spectacles.
Catching my wistful glance, Portia rose and poured us both glasses of whisky. "Take this, dearest," she urged. "Bellmont is in rare form. He will surely rail at us until supper unless he has an apoplexy first," she finished cheerfully.
Bellmont's already high colour deepened alarmingly. "You may well jest about this, but it is unacceptable for Julia to accept an invitation to stay with Brisbane at his country house. He is an unmarried man, and she is a widow of thirty. Even if you are there to chaperone, Portia, you must admit, it would be a complete violation of propriety."
"Oh, Julia hasn't been invited," Portia responded helpfully. "I was. Julia rather invited herself."
Bellmont clicked his teeth together and drew in a deep breath, his nostrils going white at the edges. "If that is supposed to offer me comfort, it is a cold one, I assure you." Portia shrugged and sipped at her whisky.
Bellmont turned to me, deliberately softening his tone. At more than forty years of age and heir to our father's earldom, he had long since grown accustomed to having his own way. It was only with his eccentric family that his success was mixed. With a cunning blend of sternness, cajolery, and logic, he was sometimes able to bend us to his will, but just as often he found himself not speaking to more than one of his nine siblings. Now he attempted an appeal to my reason.
"Julia, I understand you were quite bereft when Edward died. You were very young to be a widow, and I am sympathetic to the fact that you felt compelled to search out your husband's murderer." I raised my brows. He had not been so sympathetic at the time. When I had unmasked my husband's killer in a dramatic scene during which my town-house was burned down and I nearly lost my life, Bellmont had actually stopped speaking to me for two months. Apparently, murder is a failing of the middle classes only. Aristocrats are supposed to be above such unpleasantness.
He went on. "I realise your connection with Mr. Brisbane was a necessary evil at the time. He has proved himself a thoroughly capable inquiry agent and, mercifully, a discreet one. But your association with this man cannot continue. I do not know what Father was thinking to invite him to Bellmont Abbey at Christmas, but it was badly done, and it has given you ideas."
"And God knows women mustn't have ideas," Portia murmured into her glass.
Bellmont did not even bother to look at her. We were well-accustomed to Portia's pointed asides.
I looked helplessly at Father, who merely shrugged and poured himself a glass of whisky. If Bellmont continued on we should become a family of inebriates.
I don't think there is anything on tv tonight for me; I've quite dropped Doll House for being stupid beyond belief. So I'll get an evening to read which is so very much better. Tomorrow, Steve is participating in an NRA-sponsored class on how to teach shooting and will be gone most of the day. He'll be doing that for another two weekends over the next month and a half.
Today's Blog/Website of the Day is Human Under Construction found at http://humanunderconstruction.blogspot.com/. I particularly liked the book critic having a meltdown after reading a baaaddd book and if you scroll down you can find William Shatner singing to the whales and Pearl Jam doing a cover of H.R. Puffinstuff (do you remember that kid's show? Man, every week, one my favorites. They were so on drugs back then). Eclectic, to say the least. (Jody, this one's for you. Enjoy.)
Much love,
PK the Bookeemonster
No comments:
Post a Comment