Last night I was reminded that there is such a thing as being too American. Growing up, it seemed that everything I ate was coated in some variety of fat. Even when my mother made a Prime Rib, the only thing you could taste was the manteca which surrounded it. I didn't know it at the time, since we never went to restaurants although my father had worked at the Brass Rail, but it bore little resemblance to what is served under that name.
To make a long story short, last night I made a beef roast, using a rack to keep it out of the accumulated run off. I'd been meaning to try it for a long time. So everything is done. I'm sitting in front of the movie we're watching- some kill, kill thing- dish on lap with roast beef and gravy, a baked potato, and a cherry tomato or two for garnish, when I taste the thing. My God, it's my favorite cut, but it tastes like old cow! I ask my husband and a pal of ours who was over, "Is there something wrong with this meat?"
"Nope," they reply.
For a moment or two, I wonder if I'm gonna get food poisoning. Oh well, the dog was eating it. Try as I might, I couldn't find a hint of the usual beef flavor. Then it came to me: normally, the roast stews in its accumulated juices, read fat. "Cause, face it, the fat is where the flavor is.
And the roasting rack, it's stowed in the back of a cabinet. I might be able to use it for a cooling rack.