I spent most of the day preparing for Thursday. In no particular order, I trimmed a deboned lamb neck, seasoned it with ras-el-hanout, sprinkled it with activa, rolled it up, gave the outside a good rub with a sage-rosemary-garlic paste, and vacuum-sealed it to set it in a nice torchon. I made a chanterelle-apricot sauce with cream for the lamb. I made chicken broth from last night's carcass. I made the custard for the barely-sweetened dark chocolate-espresso ice cream. I made savory walnut marshmallows, adapted from the El Bulli cookbook. I brined a hunk of pork belly, and cooked the pork terrine with pistachios and calvados-cider soaked figs in the water bath for four hours at 66˚ C.
There was probably some other stuff too. It's particularly funny because I'm still not sure what I'm making. I'm tired. I made osso buco for dinner, on brown rice, with steamed yellow cauliflower, the mustard-heavy green mash left from yesterday, and a wonderful jus made from the braising liquid reduced with some beef demi-glace. We had a 1999 Ciacci Brunello. Milo, ecstatic, ate all of our marrow. It was good. I'm going to bed.