Yesterday, D roasted a splendid piece of rolled pork belly, low and slow initially and then blasted with heat so that the meat was juicy and tender but the outer skin crunched loud enough to hear across the room when you bit into it. Just as it should be. The pork sat on a trivet above a tray of apples and onions and cider, and the resulting concoction was just as flavourful as you might imagine, full of bite. We spooned it over the meat where it clung, more a sauce than a gravy and none the worse for that.
I was in charge of sides but decided to do something a little different to a standard complement of roasted roots, and so made, for the first (but not the last) time, a dish of Lyonnaise potatoes and some kale, braised with pancetta, liberally seasoned with black pepper and nutmeg, and finished with just a lick of cream. My main complaint with regards this latter dish is that there was enough of it - the kale cooked down a little more than I was expecting.
Sunday cooking is lovely - slow, considered...the house becoming steadily more fragrant with cooking smells as the afternoon wends its way into the evening. Sunday cooking is chopping vegetables while perched on a stool at the kitchen island, with a cup of tea to hand and the radio burbling in the background. A very pleasing memory to take into the working week.
