There exists a particular kind of Sunday that demands nothing less than slow-braised lamb shoulder. The kind where rain streaks the windows and the hours stretch ahead with luxurious emptiness. When the kitchen becomes a sanctuary and time itself becomes an ingredient.
This is not a recipe for the hurried. Four hours in the oven cannot be rushed, cannot be microwaved into submission, cannot be substituted with a pressure cooker's mechanical urgency. The lamb needs those hours to surrender completely, for the collagen to melt into silk, for the meat to fall from the bone in wine-dark ribbons.
I learned this dish from a Greek butcher in Marrickville who insisted that lamb shoulder was the only cut worth braising. "The leg is for tourists," he said, wrapping two kilograms of bone-in shoulder in white paper. "The shoulder is for people who understand waiting."
The Alchemy of Time
What happens in that slow oven is nothing short of alchemy. The red wine reduces to an almost syrupy intensity, the rosemary infusing everything it touches with its piney perfume. The vegetables—onions, carrots, celery—break down into a rough-hewn sauce that needs no thickening, no refinement.
This is peasant cooking elevated by patience. There is no cream, no butter basting, no complicated reduction. Just lamb, wine, vegetables, and time. The four most honest ingredients a cook can ask for.
Serve it with something simple that won't compete: creamy polenta, buttered potatoes, or good bread to soak up the sauce. A green salad dressed with lemon. Red wine, naturally—the same bottle you cooked with, if you've shown restraint.