Bob C., journalist, publisher, senatorial press secretary, horseman, befriender of burros and a fellow resident of northern New Mexico came to dinner bearing a bottle of Bushmills Irish Whiskey. BSK decided to honor the noble beverage by doing a belated Paddy Day feast. Corned beef. Potatoes. Cabbage. The ingredients got that special BSK twist. The corned beef got some good peppercorn spicing and simmered happily for about three hours. The cabbage was not boiled but stir fried in a manner derived from a James Beard recipe. The potatoes were smashed with chicken stock, olive oil and chopped green onions. The corned beef was accompanied by a parsley sauce that BSK sourced from the remarkable Colman Andrews. This was a puree of parsley, butter, milk, onions, broth from the cooked corned beef and a bit of flour for thickening. (You can find the recipe for the corned beef and the parsley sauce in The Brisket Book: A Love Story With Recipes by Stephanie Pierson, a wise and funny book by a wise and funny writer). HG provided the table with dill pickles, hot mustard, Guinness Stout and Belgian ale. Lots of laughs helped along by after dinner Bushmills indulgence. (If you enjoy penetrating writing and sharp wit, log into Bob C.’s Blog: An Old Gringo’s Gazette.
Is there ever a meal that is less than transcendent in the Kent-Freeman household? I doubt it! And how honored I am to be called “wise and funny” and honestly, sometimes it is hard to be funny about brisket. Pot roast always gets a laugh. Chuck is a natural punchline. Brisket not so much. I don’t believe that Louis CK has ever mentioned it. So thank you, Hungry Gerald!
Thank you for being, wise and funny lady.
Well, now! Hungry G. plays rough. Not content to harangue me incessantly about writing, he now plugs my blog — which hasn’t been updated since Karl Rove was fantasizing about a victory by Romney (remember him?). So now I’ve got to sit down and do something to bring it up to date. It’s too bad I left the Bushmill’s behind; a shot or two would do wonders for lubricating the loquaciousity of this laggard. As for the brisket: BSK can do nothing wrong; it was exquisite, and got me in such an Irish mood that I sang “Galway Bay” all the way home. The cop who pulled up beside me at a red light might have arrested me, but he, too, was a descendant of those who walked the olde sod, and joined me in a rousing chorus as we drove through the deserted streets of Espanola. (This may have been a first.) Finally, if you can pronounce loquaciousity, you might be able to tell me what the hell it means…
Gringo: There is no more incisive and eloquent commentator on this ludicrous mish-mosh we call: :”Life In The Land of The Brave And The Free” than the Old Gringo. In the interest of brilliant–and humane–prose, extreme measures must sometimes be utilized.