I came home this afternoon with a mission and small bottle of lavendar. I had been anticipating crafting this meal with a waxing zeal for the few days since I decided to make it. My mom is coming tomorrow night to go with me to the symphony. She has never been. Nor has she ever had anyone cook a real French meal for her. She deserves this honor.
I started around 5 pm. First, chopping the bacon into small bits and browning it in a cast iron pot. The bacon simmered in its juices, at first limpid and pallid, but becoming slowly richer in color and more rigid in texture. Around the edges of the small pot, a savory froth bubbled greasily. As the bacon was frying, I prepared the Herbs de Provence. Lavendar, thyme, basil, and sage fell into the Amber’s lovely marble mortar. As I crushed everything together with the pestle, the lavendar softened into the basil, the shafts of thyme crumbled alongside the feathery sage. Heaven smells arose. The bacon, finished, was laid onto a napkin to dry and the ruby cubes of beef were arranged into the bacon grease with just a round touch of olive oil. The beef, browning in batches, took care of itself while I sauteed the pearl onions. The small onions appeared nubile on the cutting board, separate from their curling vellum skins. Into the pan they went, into a bath of golden oil, to warm and turn, just a shade or two. About this moment, I stopped and looked. A savory smell wafted from the simmering beef; nearby mushrooms heaped in their carton heavy with the scent of some moss-forest. The herbs in the mortar were a breeze in a meadow, and the onions skins spiraled into a translucent, crackly mound. I could have been anywhere, any time. The moment was timeless. I just had to pause to take it all in. And, it was sublime. But, wait, the beef! I turned it just in time. Finally, when all the beef had been browned, it stayed in the pot and in went the deep-dark wine (which I had taken the liberty of sampling), the stock, the onions, the mushrooms, the herbs, the bacon, and the ubiquitous bay leaf. It only just fit in the pot. And, now, it is baking. Still. Lacking only about a half an hour of the two necessary.
Tomorrow, we will have the walnut bread I made yesterday, the beouf bourgignon, sweet potatos (not particularly French, admittedly) and stuffed apples for dessert. Let earnestness be my prayer today, always.

