Today I made time stand still.
There's a particular kind of magic that happens when you commit four hours to a single dish. Not the frantic, fifteen-minute kind of cooking that gets you through a Tuesday night. This is Sunday afternoon cooking. This is the kind of cooking that asks you to slow down, to trust the process, to let the oven do what it does best.
I started with a lamb shoulder — bone-in, because that's where the flavour lives. Rubbed it with salt and pepper, seared it until the kitchen smelled like a Mediterranean hillside. Then came the soffritto: onions, carrots, celery, all sweating down into sweetness. Red wine to deglaze, scraping up all those beautiful brown bits. Tinned tomatoes, stock, bay leaves, rosemary.
Then into the oven it went. 160°C. Three and a half hours. The house filled with the kind of aroma that makes you understand why people invented home.
When it emerged, the meat was so tender it fell apart at the mere suggestion of a fork. I let it rest (patience rewarded with patience), reduced the braising liquid into a glossy, wine-dark sauce, and served it with something simple — maybe polenta, maybe mashed potatoes, maybe just good bread to soak up every last drop.
This is the kind of meal that turns a Sunday into a memory. The kind that makes people lean back in their chairs and go quiet for a moment. The kind that reminds us why we cook at all.
