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Happy Belated Everything!

When I'm damn good and ready. That's when.

More than once, Russell has suggested I get “I didn’t mean to, it’s not my fault” tattooed across my forehead—backwards, so assholes can see it in their rearview; and again in French, so we can go to Canada. If I were in the business of desecrating my face (artistically), I might actually consider this. It’d be like walking around with a spoiler alert to one of life’s greatest questions: Is Kim going to take her share of the blame for (fill in the blank)? Sure, there are times when I’ll take 20% of it, on the rare occasion I feel like including gratuity. But, mostly, I didn’t mean to and, hence, it’s not my fault. Read the face, bitch.

Having said that, I’ve noticed a trend amongst my trio of clown-spawn. They’ve decided to share a condo in the most meandering nation in the world and, unfortunately, it’s entirely my fault. Which nation, you ask? Procrastination. And, you guessed it, I’m the queen. It’s not that I’m lazy, and I try very hard to be un-rude, there’s just something inside me that insists on flipping Mayans the bird and operating on its own calendar.

Leave it to children to remind you how awful you are.

My eldest’s band has spent the last few months preparing for a gig, but decided to inform me less than a week away about the costumes, faulty equipment and entrance fees that need to be resolved beforehand. Being the stage mom I am, it is now incumbent upon me to bail them out, checkbook at the ready. My middle son is struggling to finish his English assignments, often recruiting me to finish his larger projects hours before they’re due. And my youngest has an odd way of volunteering me for last minute shopping sprees because something I was going to buy her anyway is on sale that day only. I mean, c’mon, I’m saving money, right? Yeah, I get it. I’m a chump. Sigh.

So, in the spirit of procrastinating, here’s an amazing dinner that takes five hours to make—plenty of time to not get shit done.

Silence of the Lamb Osso Bucco

Worth the wait.

Will even feed kids that “don’t like eating babies” (animals that is)

  • 3 lbs lamb osso bucco
  • Salt and pepper
  • 1 tbsp olive oil
  • 1 large onion
  • 2 cups sweet red wine ( I used Jam Jar Sweet Shiraz)
  • 1/4 cup balsamic vinegar
  • 2 tsp minced garlic
  • 2 tsp rosemary

Preheat oven to 250˚. Liberally sprinkle lamb with salt and pepper. Heat olive oil over med-high heat in cast iron skillet. Sear both sides of lamb until browned. Transfer to roasting pan. Deglaze skillet by using a  small amount of red wine reduction. (Make this by combining the remaining ingredients in a sauce pan and bring to a simmer. Continue to simmer until reduced by at least 1/2. The longer you reduce the liquid the more rich the sauce will be.) Cut onion into eighths and place on top of lamb. Pour liquid from skillet over lamb and onion, place lid on roasting pan and bake for 4–5 hours. Turn lamb every hour so that all sides braise evenly. Remove lamb from roasting pan and top with red wine reduction. Much to my children’s horror, I sucked the marrow out of each of the lamb bones they so carelessly left behind. Silly wabbits.

Marrowly, marrowly, marrowly, life is but a dream.

Of course I jacked up my kids. Who doesn’t? The only reason we have them is because we can’t make ourselves happy anymore because of how badly our parents jacked us up. Love you, mom. Love you, dad. You guys actually did do a great job with me, but if you were ever hoping (however faintly) that I’d get my procreative comeuppance one day, them three little bastards got me good for you.

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3 responses »

  1. hello

    i like to add some orange in my osso bucco zest and a bit of juice (cremolata?)

    what do you think of this ?

    Bon appétit 🙂

    Reply

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