It started cold. Not a metaphor. Just cold. The kind that gets inside your elbows when you’re reaching into the back of the fridge for something that might still be edible. There was a bottle of wine in there. Opened, half full, questionably corked. I didn’t open it. He did.
The mushrooms were hiding behind a jar of mustard I haven’t trusted since fall. I think I said “hell with it” out loud. Then I pulled out the beef. That was the moment. The weight of it. Like holding a choice.
I wasn’t planning on cooking anything that took more than ten minutes. But Martha Stewart’s Beef Bourguignon wandered into my kitchen like a ghost I half-remembered. Full of red wine and rituals. I’ve made it before, but not like this. Not with that bottle. Not in this mood.
What Her Highness Originally Said to Do
Her version reads like a ceremony. Bacon first, browned into discipline. Then beef, patted dry like a toddler after bath time. You dredge it in flour, but gently. Garlic and onions go in — chopped, never smashed. Then the tomato paste, carrots cut diagonally (because of course), a whole bottle of dry red, and thyme like an afterthought she still controls.
She finishes it with roasted mushrooms and pearl onions. Of course she does. It’s a finish that says, “I know how to host.” It’s rich and slow and French and a little smug. And fine — it works. The woman knows her beef.
Where I Strayed (And Why)
I didn’t pat the beef dry. I didn’t care. It hissed anyway. I used a cabernet that tasted like endings. I burned the bacon a little because the pan was cold and I was distracted watching snow blow sideways out the window.
No pearl onions. Not because I forgot them — because I didn’t want them. Too polite. I used shallots I found rolling around in the drawer and roasted them like they’d offended me.
I also added more garlic than she called for. Maybe double. Maybe more. My dad used to crush cloves with the side of his fist. I did it like that too, without thinking.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The beef browned like it was angry. Loud, hot, uneven. Mae came downstairs just as the smell turned dark and sweet. She didn’t say anything. Just sniffed and sat at the counter, texting something with her socked feet on the oven door.
I stirred. Not like a recipe. Like a ritual I didn’t remember learning.
I used the Dutch oven I dented the night I left. The one that hits the stovetop with a heavy kind of forgiveness. It wobbles slightly now. I tap it with the spoon sometimes, like I’m checking if it’s still breathing.
Carrots in. Wine in. Thyme — I think. Or maybe it was tarragon. It smelled like rain anyway.
When I poured the wine, it splashed. Left a streak on the stove that looked like a map. I didn’t clean it. Still there, probably.
The stew simmered for hours. Not because the recipe said so. Because I didn’t want it to end. The kitchen got quiet. Mae went back upstairs. The beef softened the way silence does — slowly, until you notice you’re not holding your shoulders so high.
Some Things I Noticed
The fat rises like memory. You can skim it off, or let it stay. Depends what kind of day you’ve had.
Letting the stew rest before serving is like breathing before you speak. It tastes different when you wait.
The mushrooms made it louder, somehow. Not taste. Presence.
What I Did With the Rest
I stood over the stove and ate it with the wooden spoon. Burnt my tongue. Didn’t care.
Mae came down again. Said, “It smells like when we used to have real Sundays.” Then took the spoon out of my hand.
Would I Make It Again?
Maybe. Probably. If the house feels like this again. If the wine’s already open.
That’s As Much As I Remember
The pan’s still on the stove. Cold now. Quiet. I might eat it again tomorrow. Or not. Depends what kind of cold it is.
If you want something more chaotic, I made Her Highness’s lamb stew once when the fridge broke. No regrets. Fewer rules.
FAQs
Yeah. In Fact, It’S Better The Next Day. Everything Settles. The Beef Softens Into Itself. Just Don’T Microwave It—Warm It Low, Like It Deserves.
Listen, Her Highness Says Yes, And So Do I. It Cooks Down, Don’T Worry. Just… Maybe Keep A Second Bottle For Sipping. You’Ll Want It Around Hour Two.
Sure. But The Carrots Get A Little Mushy, And The Sauce Turns Sleepy. Still Good. Just Different. Like Most Things After They’Ve Been Through The Cold.
Then Don’T Use Them. I Didn’T. Roasted Shallots Work, Or Nothing At All. Martha Might Frown, But Honestly? It Still Tasted Like Forgiveness.
Not Hard. Just Slow. It’S More About Attention Than Skill. Like Stirring A Story That Needs Time To Unfold. You’Ll Be Fine.
You Could. But I Won’T Lie—Some Of The Soul Gets Lost. The Pot, The Heat, The Occasional Stir… That’S Part Of The Magic. But Hey—Do What Works. I Get It.
Absolutely. It Smells Like Effort And Tastes Like Care. Just Don’T Tell Them It Started With Burnt Bacon And A Mood.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Beef Bourguignon
Description
A Warm Stew That Let Me Sit Still For Once.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Cook the Bacon: In your heaviest pot (mine’s the dented Dutch oven—still wobbles), toss in the chopped bacon over medium-low heat. Let it crisp slowly. Don’t rush it. It’ll take 10–15 minutes to render and darken. Remove with a slotted spoon when it looks like something you’d steal off someone else’s plate. Leave the fat. That’s where the day starts to change.
- Season and Dredge the Beef: Grab the beef (cold, heavy, needs you). Salt it like it owes you something. Pepper too. Then drop the chunks into a bowl of flour—just a light toss, shake off the extra. Not a coating, just a suggestion.
- Brown the Beef in Batches: Turn up the heat to medium. Let the fat speak. Work in batches—don’t crowd. You want color, not steam. Each piece should brown like it’s remembering a better day. Give them about 10 minutes per batch. Transfer to a bowl. Save the juice. That’s memory.
- Deglaze the Pan: Splash in ½ cup water. It’ll hiss—don’t jump. Scrape up everything that stuck. That’s the good part. Let it boil down to a few spoonfuls. Smells better already.
- Sauté the Onion and Garlic: Add the chopped onion and garlic to the same pot. Let them soften—about 3 minutes. The scent will wrap around your shoulders if you’re lucky. Stir in the tomato paste. Just a minute more. You’ll know when it turns dark and thick like regret.
- Build the Stew: Toss the carrots in. They don’t need to be precise. Then return the browned beef and every drop of juice to the pot. Pour in a whole bottle of dry red wine (I used whatever was half-open). Add thyme if you believe in it. Drop the crisped bacon back in too. Bring it up to a low boil. It’ll start to smell like patience.
- Let It Simmer: Turn the heat low. Cover. Forget about it for a while—3 to 3½ hours. Stir now and then, mostly to remind yourself it’s still there. The beef should give in but not fall apart. Like people do, sometimes.
- Finish & Serve: Skim off the fat if you want. I didn’t. Stir in roasted mushrooms and blistered shallots (no pearl onions here—felt too proper). Taste. Adjust. Maybe don’t. Serve hot. Spoon it over mashed potatoes, buttered noodles, or bread that can hold grief.