illdothedisheslater

Remember yesterday I said I love barbacoa?

Four hours passed.  Four and a half actually, since the longer the better with slow cooking.  They call it slow cooking for a reason.  They do not call it fast cooking.  (Zing!)

The Dutch oven now looks like this:

Which admittedly looks a little gross, but where one may see grossness, I see flavor.  When I pick up a chunk of beef with my tongs, it falls into shreds, which is exactly what I want.  A little taste reveals that it’s a bit spicier than I’d hoped (mystery peppers).  I remove the meat into a bowl, shred it roughly with tongs, salt it well, cover it with foil (tightly) and set it aside.

Now we turn our attention to the remaining sauce, which had indeed mellowed with age and cooking.   Since the Dutch oven will need to soak at least overnight, I pour it into a smaller pot, and set it on medium-low to reduce on the stovetop.

Doesn’t that look amazing?

It reduces for about an hour, at which point it’s just a little over half its original volume.  During this time (this is very important to note) I applied mascara for the first time in about a year.  It doesn’t agree with me and makes my eyes water and itch, but I had a free sample from my Birchbox, and had a birthday dinner to attend.  I go to turn the heat off, while I’m waiting for my ride.  I bend over the pot of boiling mystery pepper sauce, long black lashes a-fluttering.  I lift the spoon to take a sniff, a large drop falls from the spoon, and a splash of boiling mystery pepper sauce jumps directly into my right eye.  I yell, dramatically, “Oh God, NO!” (yes, that actually happened), and make it halfway to the bathroom before the burn starts.

I splash cold water over my eye, remembering too late that water actually intensifies the capsaicin burn from pepper.  I switch to eyedrops, and plenty of natural tears.  I can do nothing for 10 minutes but hang my head over the sink, try to cry (not a difficult task), and flap my hands helplessly.  Oh it burns!  The pain is huge and all-encompassing.  Oh me oh my. In the back of my mind I’m listening for the honk of my ride in the driveway, figuring I could stumble to the door and wave them in to witness my agony.  Somewhere in my brain is lodged a weird and possibly made up fact that milk can ease the burn of peppers, so I fix up a cold compress of 2% on a paper towel and carefully wipe the remaining sauce off my eyelid.  It helps!  Eventually I calm down.  My eye is swollen half-shut, and I am a mess of snot and tears, with streaks of black mascara running down my face.  I hear the honk from the driveway.

Luckily the dinner was in a neighboring town, so I had a 20-minute ride during which I held the milk-compress to my eye, and tried to mop up.  We had a lovely dinner, at which I maybe looked a little teary and puffy, but thankfully no one brought it up.  The next morning, it’s a little red, but I’m pretty much fine.  I put the pot back on the stove, and consider cooking goggles.

Anyway.

I go ahead and add the can of tomato paste to the sauce to both thicken it and to hopefully cut the heat a little.  I like spicy, but this is bordering on macho hot-wings-eating-contest heat.  I let it cook down a bit further to take the raw tomato flavor out.  Still too spicy.  I imagine bottling it, and adding a warning label about not applying around the eyes.  Five out of five ophthalmologists agree!

In the end I cut the sauce with half a can of chicken broth, and only put about two cups into the beef.  I hate to waste the rest of the sauce, which despite its aggressive tendencies is still quite tasty, but it’s strongly beef-flavored as well, and doesn’t sound too appetizing.  “Would you like to try my beefy hot sauce?  No?”  The rest will go into the freezer, where it will be amazing in chili next time I make some.

Serve with tortillas, lettuce, cheese, and toppings of your choice.  I usually prefer Monterey Jack for fancy Mexican-ish, but the mild cheese doesn’t stand up well to the beef, so I use half sharp Cheddar for a bit more flavor.

Accompanying beverage:  a light crisp white wine, or a tall cold glass of milk.