Sirloin

The sirloin in question was first spotted in the cold room at the butcher's shop on the occasion of the impromptu beef noticed at reference 1. At which point it had three ribs and was looking fairly bright and fresh. That is to say a Thursday. I put in my claim for two of the three ribs on the Tuesday following, explaining that I wanted all the bones left in, in the knowledge that the butcher liked his mature beef without most of its bones.

Collected it on the Saturday after that and despite what had gone before, only just managed to stop him taking the backbone out. My excuse being that I had been distracted by the rib and sirloin, maybe a metre of it, lying entire on his block. The butcher did not volunteer who or what it was for and I didn't like to ask. 

Maybe the Grand Lodge of Epsom was having a Grand Dinner? Grand enough to get all their silver out? On which point I note that conspicuous display of wealth in the form of silver plate and silver cutlery does not seem to be the thing any more, not that I have any first-hand experience of these matters. Expensive car, hot tub or swimming pool in the garden yes, but tableware no. Not like the late Samuel Pepys who was very keen on having lots of silverware with which to impress his guests. His bribe of choice. I note also that hot tubs seem to be quite noisy. We suspect that there is something of the sort of few doors along the road and it seems to involve a refrigerator-like motor running for hours every day.

Or maybe a Memorial Dinner to celebrate the life of a recently departed brother-in-craft? For which see §164 et seq. of the constitutions.

Back with the sirloin, it was small enough to weigh properly at home, rather than using the DIY beam balance, coming in at 6lbs 8oz. Turned up the trusty Radiation Cookbook, where it says that for a joint of this sort allow 20 minutes to the pound, so 130 minutes at gas mark 3, which equals 163C. Maybe a touch less given that we have a fan oven. The same page as for the rather smaller impromptu.

Oiled, tied and guyed for the off. The two guys at the front because there was a slight lean to the joint and I did not want it to fall over. And the cut where the butcher had started on the backbone is visible in the centre of the snap.

Then into the pre-heated oven 10:30. Speared at 12:00. No ooze. Basted. Parsnips added, cut lengthwise fairly small. Oven turned off at 12:40 or so. 

Plated at 12:50. Basted parsnips again. A bit chewy - but they all went. Served at 12:55. Meat pretty good. A touch bloody when first opened but it was cooked, and soon settled down to a brown-grey. A one trestle occasion. For which see, for example, reference 2.

Served with greens (my special request), some genuine sprouting broccoli (not that calabrese which you get everywhere now) and carrots. Plus a spot of the Fleurie from Waitrose, previously noticed.

Ready-made horseradish for those that went in for that sort of thing visible left. While I now remember the days when I used to pickle my own horseradish - the stuff being more or less a weed and very easy to grow if you have the space - with the build-up of ammonia coming close to knocking you out when you took the lid off.  Not much fun really, but I persisted for a while.

In the intervals, some of us tested our IQ on the contraption purchased by the large junk shop in Shanklin on the Isle of Wight, a junk shop last noticed at reference 3. One member of the party had the temerity to show off his genius score, but when asked to repeat the feat could only turn in sub-moron, as snapped above.

Out into the garden, where hunting for tadpoles and mosquito larvae in the micro-ponds was good for a bit. As was cracking open acorns, the thing being a smart tap with a brick on one end or the other. The young people present made quite a palaver out of choosing which end was appropriate on each occasion - without caring to hold the acorn while I delivered said taps. I had to do both.

While the sub-moron showed off his pecks by managing to hold a string of eight bricks, pressed between his palms, at least for a few seconds. Something I could once manage, but I am now down to a more modest six. In my day, bricks were unloaded from the large flat-bed lorry at the rate of six or seven, this being years before the invention of shrink-wrapped pallets and when lorries of this sort were the kings of the road. Flat beds, then as now, made of timber, close boarded on a steel frame with planks of two by three inches I should think.

For dessert, a carrot cake, turned out by BH for the occasion.

We did not quite finish the beef for lunch and I was still good for a spot of (fresh) bread and beef later on. Snapped here while I was wondering how many more slices were appropriate.

I think it did the two of us two more meals and a spot of snacking. To be fair, the supply of beef for the last of these meals was getting a touch low. The snap above being taken on day two, that is to say Monday.

The day closed with a chance outing for BH's ancient harmonica, otherwise a mouth organ, probably not a particularly expensive one. I had a bit of a blow, which reminded me of my early days in public houses when there were still a fair number of people about who could play them pretty well. Able, for example, to give the illusion of playing two lines of music at once, perhaps the tune above and the accompaniment below. Pushed out of bars by the arrival of the juke box.

PS 1: Blogger doing a Word and getting a bit tiresome about my spelling and grammar. Red and blue underlinings everywhere, only a proportion of which are errors for correction.

PS 2: it took me a while to turn up the balance noticed above, but got there in the end. See reference 5.

References

Reference 1: https://psmv5.blogspot.com/2022/08/impromptu.html.

Reference 2: https://pumpkinstrokemarrow.blogspot.com/search?q=trestle.

Reference 3: https://psmv5.blogspot.com/2022/08/the-island-line.html.

Reference 4: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2021/06/sheep-shoulder-day.html. The all-important temperature conversion chart.

Reference 5: https://psmv4.blogspot.com/2021/08/a-festival-of-pork.html.