Once a year

There are certain recipes I make once a year.

Each summer, I’ll get the fry oil to temperature, mix the cornmeal coating, set up stations, and fry a mess of green tomatoes. I’ll salt them while they drip oil, and we’ll eat them for dinner. We’ll eat so many that we won’t want them for another year. They are to enjoy and savour in the moment. To anticipate and remember as the year rolls along.

We’re seasons away from the next tomato frying, but it comes to mind on this windy, rainy, dark January evening because I’m preparing the opposite season’s annual culinary event. It’s French onion soup night.

Two days ago I thawed the beef bones that had been waiting in the freezer. Yesterday, those bones roasted for an hour with onions and carrots before being simmered for seven hours with peppercorns, garlic, celery, and bay leaves. Then came the cooling and skimming. The straining and pouring.

This afternoon, I sliced the ten cups of onions that are slowly caramelizing on the stovetop. In another half hour, I’ll add the garlic and thyme along with the stock and salt. While that simmers, I’ll grate cheese and make croutons. A mere 48-hours after I decided to make today onion soup day, dinner will be served.

It is deceptively simple. There is so very little to it except for time. Of course, I could cut out steps. I could buy the stock. I could accelerate the caramelizing. I could take back the time and still have soup.

But it wouldn’t be the same. It wouldn’t be the recipe we anticipate and savour and remember.