Badass ninja

As part of my ongoing quest to prepare and eat simple slow-cooked food, last week I discovered that I finally had acquired all the ingredients for homemade beef stock. Approximately seven pounds of meaty ribs, knuckles and shanks had accumulated in the freezer and it was time to get busy.

Four hours of oven-roasting bones, vegetables and fresh herbs (not to mention a whole head of garlic) later and the pot was ready to go stovetop. A gallon of water was added. After checking a half dozen sources, mostly French cookbooks, I decided to slow simmer (that’s about a bubble a minute, folks) the stock for sixteen hours for maximum effect. A plan in place, it was time for bed. Every few hours I would wake, check the stock and adjust the heat if necessary, then go back to sleep. At seven o’clock sharp, the stock would finally be done simmering.

I awoke promptly at seven (my internal alarm clock rarely fails) and walked naked into the kitchen to turn off the stove. I intentionally left my glasses by the bedside, not wanting to fully wake up that early, and had every intention of climbing immediately back into bed. Sadly, it was not to be.

The stove now off, I had started back towards the bedroom when I sensed something behind me. Something moving very slowly. Without my glasses I’m nearly blind so I never even bothered to turn my head. But that feeling was there; I was being watched. In one swift move, I picked up the wooden cutting board that lay before me and, turning it on its side, spun and brought its edge down on the counter with all the sleepy force I could muster. I heard a tiny crack and, surprised by the sound, turned and examined the kitchen counter. A grey and brown mouse lay sprawled before me, neck clearly broken and legs akimbo.

I ran back into the bedroom to retrieve my glasses and bathrobe. On the off chance that the mouse reanimated I decided to err on the side of caution and suited up, slipping on a pair of oven mitts: one black and white checkered, the other a bright blue penguin. I picked the mouse up by the tail and it swung slowly back and forth like a cute little pendulum. A bizarre feeling of accomplishment washed over me and I went to taunt my sleeping cat, Mucha. “Do you see?” I said, proudly waving it in front of her face. “Do you see what your Daddy did? You sleep all day and I’m the one catching mice!” Mucha was nonplussed.

Still feeling immensely impressed with myself (I should point out here for those of you that don’t know me very well, I am practically a Buddhist and usually take no pleasure in the killing of anything; I just carried a bee outside and set him free even though I am highly allergic to their stings), I strutted through the living room and out onto the front porch and flung the mouse down onto the lawn. His tiny lifeless body lying before me, I pumped my fists towards the heavens and sounded my barbaric yawp: “I AM A BADASS NINJA MOTHERFUCKER!!”

The sound of an approaching car brought me back to reality. Well, that and the cold morning breeze. It was at that exact moment that I realized that while I had remembered to grab my glasses I had completely forgotten my bathrobe. I was standing on the front porch and shaking my fists over the broken body of my tiny enemy wearing nothing but mismatched oven mitts.

Hello country living! I have arrived.