Lo, Fat!

Oh goody!  Just checked my leftover spare ribs in the fridge, and it looks like they are cold.  You know what that means.... hardened saturated fat layer!!! 

I don't often come by isolated saturated fats.  An obvious but nevertheless unfortunate byproduct of my aversions to both texture and cooking smells is that I don't often cook meat at home.  But the other day I decided to make some braised spare ribs and headed to the grocery store to buy a good cut. 

Spare ribs, as luck would have it, turned out to be on sale.  My disproportionate satisfaction with the luck-of-the-draw savings, however, quickly turned into vastly more disproportionate horror at the following sign advertising the sale:

What jerk came up with the idea of adding to the sign a friendly cartoon rendering of an animal, smiling and totally oblivious to its grim future of slaughter, purchase and consumption?  The cute little cow had a little friend too, a piggy playing near the packaged pork ribs.  Waaaaah!!!! 

I know it's grossly hypocritical of me, but I don't like being reminded of the animal from whence my delicious meal came. Of course, if I were more committed to the cause I would become a vegan, which I fully intend to do as soon as I meet a vegan who is not kind of annoying and proselytizing.

As it stands, I like to pretend that meat grows in plant form.  I like to imagine that some fatherly farmer wearing stylish coveralls and a floppy sun hat with a fetching grosgrain ribbon tied 'round it goes out into his fields each day with a brightly colored watering can and lovingly irrigates his steak crop. Then takes some pruning shears to his burger bushes.  And sings lullabies to his baby bacon saplings.

The little white lie is enough to keep me relatively clean of conscience on the rare occasions when I eat meat.  And cooking with meat, though even more rare, is an occasion to celebrate, because of the glorious saturated fat that it generates.

Playing with fat is, without a doubt, the single greatest Joy of cooking. In the past, I've likened the act of chipping away the white, solidified centimeters-thick layer of fat that forms at the top of certain dishes to peeling off a Biore pore strip from a blackhead-laden nose. There's something very viscerally satisfying about seeing an accumulation of an unwanted byproduct. I think that's also why I really like that Ped-Egg scraper thingamajig for filing down the rough skin on my heels.

This time, while the spare ribs were slow-cooking, I had already jumped the gun on the fat-removal process by siphoning away some fat that had risen to the top with a spoon. I found the process of slowly skimming liquid fat, however, infinitely less satisfying than gouging off pieces of its solidified alter-ego.

It's far more delicate work -- surf too deeply and short rib flavor shrapnel gets caught on the spoon along with the waste -- and I've never been too skilled at any tasks requiring the finer motor skills.  Or patience, for that matter.  The process of collecting liquid fat resembles the meticulous and repeated dedication of plucking an unruly eyebrow, whereas solid fat offers the instant gratification of waxing multiple hairs into orderly submission in one fell swoop.

On the other hand, capturing fat in liquid form has its own set of merits.  As surely as Lindsay Lohan will wake up tomorrow afternoon hungover with cigarette butts and cocaine in her hair extensions, so will all saturated fat harden at room temperature.  For my short ribs, I collected the fat in a soup can and it solidified before my eyes.

I think next time I'll pool it into a clear receptacle.  Maybe a beer bottle or a shot glass so I can play a nice trick on someone when they get drunk.  Heh heh heh.

1 comment:

  1. You are EVIL! Remind me never to drink with you...

    ReplyDelete