Stew the next day is better than yesterday's
A pan of stew still from yesterday, the fat on top a white circle, the kettle clicked, the hand already towards the hob. You can decide yesterday was better and not lift the lid. I lift it, smell: the onion and the meat are already one, it smells thicker than in the evening. The lid is warm from the cold of the fridge. The spoon lifts the white circle, dark underneath, steam towards the lamp — and Monday isn’t empty any more.
Stew the next day is better than yesterday’s. The onion and the spices are already in the meat. A quiet heat, the wooden spoon along the bottom — I don’t let it boil hard, I don’t tear the pieces. If it’s sour or slimy — into the bin, not on the table. The hand doesn’t hide the pan behind the milk “it can wait”. The lid rings on the pan, the smell already thicker — that’s what the second day is for.
A spoon with potatoes, with bread on the board, with rice. The lid on, back into the cold. I don’t keep it longer than two days. I don’t mix it up with Wednesday’s quiet soup: that’s another pan. Here the meat already knows itself, and a plate is waiting for it. I cut bread on the board for the pot — I don’t wait “since we already ate it yesterday”.
I don’t need a pan I’m sorry to open on the second day. I need a plate from which yesterday’s is already thicker and still smells of itself. In your house is the stew on the table the next day — or it was already yesterday, and today an empty hob?
Photo: Yang Hao, Pexels.
These are kitchen notes for adults, not medical advice.