I’m 40 years old and I’ll probably never again boil a poultry carcass to make stock.
There, I said it and it feels good.
For years after a roasted bird, I boiled pans full of evil-looking bones and scummy stock. The end result was a kitchen full of a foul smelling steamy fug followed by a fridge full of stale stock in greasy containers.
It does make fabulous soup, I’ll concede. But rarely in my life.
Thing is, if I’ve had time to roast something at the weekend I’m highly unlikely to subsequently find time to make soup before the stock turns rancid. Believe me you don’t want to give fridge space to a vat of liquid which is beginning to seethe with decomposition.
Besides which, most supermarkets keep neat, tidy packets of proper stock you can bung in the freezer.
The light dawned tonight after supper as the Panther was wresting the shards of succulent duck from the bones. “You making stock?” he enquired.
“Nope. Shan’t and you can’t make me.”
Supper, by the way, was roast Gressingham duck with baby beetroot, cabbage, potatoes and sort-of Cumberland sauce.
The duck was Nigella-style: poached yesterday and bunged in a hot oven today.
Spuds are Aga-style: in an Aga fingers of floury potato massaged with olive oil resemble chips, in a fan oven they are soggier and stickier but no less yummy.
Sort-of sauce: orange juice, butter, red wine and stock (Marigold powdered!) with a little cornflour.