You can’t see it, but there is a faded Mauviel swoosh scar just to the left of this fresh Mauviel swoosh. Unbelievably, I’ve sizzled in the handle of my favorite Mauviel pot on my forearm for a second time. Brown Note Sausage is to blame. I’m supposed to detail Brown Note Sausage in a later post, but perhaps with all the danger involved, I’ve procrastinated. It’s really simple. Brown the sausage, pull it out, make a sauce with buttah, thyme and onions, stick the sausage back in and put in the oven. After it gets all browny and bubbly, pull it out … this is the tough part … beware! the handle is hot. I know the handle is hot, but for whatever reason ( I’ll blame the children ) I sizzled my forearm. Don’t sizzle your forearm. Someday I’ll write up Brown Note Sausage, but for now, I’ll give you a little inspiration for its name.
The Brown Noise
The dish is actually yummy and doesn’t elicit a similar response to that of the South Park Brown Noise.
Our little chef found some super grand roller blades left in our rental house by a friend. She’s been rolling around ever since. She’s going through a Ramona Flowers phase. She loves to carry my lovely plates with hot stuff carrying knives so I can practice not freaking out. I have a lot of practice.
She pats her grassfed beef patty dry to avoid boiling the meat and instead give it a nice lardy browning. She likes her burger browned on the outside and red on the inside. A nub of butter, a crack of pepper and it rests while she finishes up the potatoes.
France has some LOVELY lamb. In these parts of the Southwest, it’s quite pricey. I cook for six, so I don’t cook lamb much. When we’re after grass fed meat, we stick to our own beef.
Every once in awhile, the shops advertise New Zealand Lamb for 6 – 7 Euros a kilo. I’m always too late to grab some. But there they were, three lovely lamb roasts. I bought all of them.
I’ve never done a lamb leg roast, but I’ve roasted my share of meat.
Cooked with garlicy friends and thyme sprigs. I did high oven for about fifteen minutes, then lowered to 200 C for another forty minutes. My oven runs high.
Served with roasted pots, buttery asparagus, smothered in gravy and washed down with a lovely Madiran.
See!? and I even managed to take an after photo. Usually I tuck in and forgo the result shot. I do and I do for you.
To a Seattlite, a sin. To a lady feeding eight in Southwest France, a yummy treat! At eight or ten Euros a kilo, I pick this fat slab of farmed fishy up at the super march. Fry gently in duck fat. Served with slaw, left over rice and some broc-cheese.
K. Gotta flip. Bob appetite.
A most welcome b-day prez!