When in doubt, make pot roast + Sean’s top 6 protest songs

Salves for the moment

One of my most comforting memories as a kid was when my grandma would take me by the hand to go “check” the pot roast. 

She’d grab a fork, open her old, fire-engine red Chambers gas range (this thing was a marvel) and jab at the meat, sitting in its pool of braising liquid, always surrounded by glossy, translucent onions (my grandmother was a renowned onion lover) shred off a hunk, revealing the still-pink innards, offer me a bite, then take hers, and declare it “done.” 

She’d be laughing a little, a laugh I now know was mixed with what was probably her third boozy drink of the late afternoon, though her smoker’s cackle was nothing but generosity and love to me. I realize now that there was also underlying world- weariness and discontent in that laugh, but I was a kid, and I was happy, and she seemed like it too, so we tasted the pot roast. 

Ours was a meat and potatoes family. My grandpa was a butcher, and always brought home some butcher-paper wrapped cut, likely discounted for him. A potato of some sort, an overcooked green vegetable, an iceberg lettuce salad, and gravy were the usual accompaniments. This is still a perfectly acceptable table for me-- not that I get it all that often. 

These days my comfort foods, like any good foodie, lean toward Puttanesca, tacos, pho with extra noodles, a fat, cheffed-up burger.

But today I thought to make pot roast. I bought the biggest cut of chuck at the store, hedging for a moment wondering why I was doing this when there’s only three of us to feed, but then recalling Maggie Hennesey’s recent article “Why Do We Cook Too Much for the People We Love?” I knew that my choice of hunk o’ hunk of beefy love was about ensuring that we’re all going to be OK. At least for tonight. 

I mostly don’t cook much at home anymore-- Sean has edged me out with his superior skillz, and I’ve acquiesced that our home kitchen really is his domain. But tonight, I couldn’t wait to get at the stove and start chopping veg (extra onion, for gramma) to nestle into the pot, and let her rip on low for hours and hours. When the house filled with the aroma of cooked down wine and beef stock, I felt happy again, as if my gramma Jan was just around the corner, about to grab me by the hand. 

My grandma’s pot roasts were simple things-- I doubt if she ever plied hers with wine-- wine was a luxury best left for the goblet-- and my overabundance of leftover pinot noirs and cabs, half drunk, pushed into the corner to save for cooking would probably have seemed like an oddity to her. 

But pot roasts are personal, and as long as you have a hunk of meat, some liquid, and some time, you have not just dinner, but a figurative, comforting squeeze on the hand.

My pot roast hack:

Confession: I use Thomas Keller’s braised short ribs recipe and sub out chuck, but I shortcut the whole thing. Basically, I throw all of the ingredients in his overly fussy recipe into a pot, and let it rip.

If my grandma would have scoffed at cooking wine, imagine how she would have felt about clarification, cartouche, and chinois. Nah-- just throw it all in there, I say. If there are any French purists here, just look away.

Pot roast is really an ode to gramma, and I don’t think a three day ordeal involving cheesecloth is necessary. But you do you. 

Once the meat is tender, reduce the braising liquid by at least half. If you’re feeling fancy, whisk in a knob of butter.