Today is my last day of making this rich stock that my waking hours and dreams have been filled with. Fish slip through warm stock lakes, and mysteriously do not end up cooked, waterfalls gush with it; people at work open their mouth to speak and it all seems very normal except my desk is a giant badger and when they open their mouths to ask about the report, within which I have broken the pivot tables again, instead of a harangue, lovely golden stock issues from their mouths. In fact, the last batch comes off the hob in 6 minutes for straining. I didn’t realize that I only have two more recipes that call for it, and I will execute them this week. I will probably revisit this stock in the fall, when it is colder (assuming, of course, that it gets warm at all this summer). Getting to the end of the stock was a real surprise. My remaining soup recipes I have on the list to fool with either call for white stock or make their own through various means.

I wish you could see this stock like I do as it comes off the hob and goes first through the large strainer to get the bones and veg chunks out, and then though the fine strainer to get the gristle and herb bits. Golden layers of fat and loveliness swirl and fight for position as the cooling process already is beginning. There is something in stock that of course the Victorians had to quantify and label, and they called it “osmazome.”

100. OSMAZOME is soluble even when cold, and is that part of the meat which gives flavour and perfume to the stock. The flesh of old animals contains more osmazome than that of young ones. Brown meats contain more than white, and the former make the stock more fragrant. By roasting meat, the osmazome appears to acquire higher properties; so, by putting the remains of roast meats into your stock-pot, you obtain a better flavour.

I think I can actually see the golden, delicious monkeyscience. I am a little sad today, though, since it is goodbye for now. It takes almost no time at all for me to assemble it now in the morning, and let it bubble away for a while. What next?

This got me to thinking I should be more organized, more orderly, in the Victorian way. I should spread the recipes out better and plan better. What would Isabella Beeton do, I asked myself? I guess she would be repeatedly having miscarriages brought on by catching undiagnosed syphilis from her husband, in between skiving off to Scotland “on business” and stealing other people’s recipes. WAIT. If I was I.B. it would be four years on from my death.

I do seem to have some kind of bug this weekend that is making me sleep an ungodly amount and am hit with rolling waves of nausea. Gotta love the late spring thing. I guess being only half-well is rather Victorian. What I concluded, since I am horrible undead Isabella Beeton at this point in my career, is that I am making a calendar to keep track of shopping lists and ingredients, so I can keep things moving along, and not make anyone crazy burned out like in Beefuary.

So, spurred on by my progress through the world of soup, I am going to regroup and get more calendary.