It’s the simple things that bring the greatest joy. Or some load of ol’ cobblers like that.
Today, for me, it was spending the morning filling the house with the smell of homemade chicken stock being made and reduced to throw into a risotto for tea.
I’ve never made stock before.
It was a whole new world.
And it was bloomin’ delicious smelling.
The house smells nice when there’s, say, a curry cooking or a chilli. Or there’s Christmas cakes in the oven. Stuff like that. But honestly, a nice, fresh (I think that’s the word for it), autumnal morning. The sun glinting off whatever sun glints off. Light streaming through the browns and reds on the trees. And the house filled with a cosy, comforting smell of the structural parts of a chicken going soft in a pan.
And yes, it was a lot of effort (by the agitated water molecules, rather than by me) to get something that could have been gotten by a jug of boiling water and a stock cube.
But oh boy it was some tasty, tasty stock.
I kind of want to roast another chicken just so I can make more of it and do something else with it.
Or just to enjoy the smells for a bit.
I’ve never really understood the bit in cartoons where a smell gets in their nostrils and floats them along in the air until this morning. I could have floated into the kitchen on a bed of stock scent. It’s the kind of thing I wish I’d cottoned on to at the start of lockdown, to be honest. I’d have been boiling up chicken carci to my heart’s content. The freezer would be full of chicken stock portions for use in things that I haven’t even thought of yet.
It’s like a culinary world has opened up for me.
I’m just going to boil things for long periods of time and see what happens.