The Tao of Pot Roast

The trick to good pot roast – boy, I feel like I should be wearing an apron and pearl earrings just typing those words – but here I am in my third-day jeans that have a large hole in the left thigh. And as you will see in a moment, maybe that is the right outfit for discussing pot roast. Because after 18 years of trying and failing, I think I’ve finally hit upon the secret: The key to a great pot roast is not caring.

That’s right. Not caring, or at least putting up a good front.

For years, I’ve been fussing pot roasts to their inevitable ruins. It’s a hard habit to quit. I’m a born futzer. When writing, I will go at a story again and again until it is pried out from under my twitching fingertips. When I love you, I tend to smooth and ruffle, straighten collars and push in pockets. (With great restraint, I have stopped spitting on my fingers and then rubbing splotches off my children’s faces. OK, at least my 7-year-old is spared.)

Cooking is no different. I’m always pinching and tweaking, peaking and sniffing. Leaving well enough alone has never been a strength, in life or the kitchen. And over the years, I’ve done serious damage to a few friendships and many a hunk of meat.

Some people follow the Tao of Pooh; maybe I need to learn the Tao of Pot Roast. It goes something like this: Don’t take yourself so seriously. You really aren’t that important. Sometimes the most powerful influence you can have is allowing something to come into its own.

I had never made a pot roast -- in fact, I’d never even thought about making a pot roast -- until I met my farm-raised husband. But then I saw his mother unwrap a hunk of partially defrosted meat, toss it in a pan with a couple of bouillon cubes and whatever vegetables were lying around, usually two or three carrots. She wouldn’t even slice them, just cut the ends off, peel them and put the three long orange sticks in the pan. A little water, possibly a peeled onion. Some tin foil over the top.

I can do that, I thought. And then for the next 18 years I proceeded to do exactly the opposite.

I’d brown, and poke holes and stick garlic in them, rub herbs, smother the meat in vegetables, douse things in wine, stock, port, and I think once, I even tried coffee. Sometimes my concoctions were edible, other times unchewable. Never were they anything close to the melting goodness that routinely came out of my mother-in-law’s oven.

My first step toward a better pot roast was motherhood. I know, I know, bring out the pearls and apron again. But it’s true.

I was raised by a mother who let me take my own spills and deal with the consequences. My mother-in-law and my mother are as different as two people come, but this they have in common. Neither were helicopter parents.

When I had my own children, I took my cues from these two women. For the first time in my life, I learned to back off. My son wanted to go on the big kid swing when he wasn’t ready. He pushed and pushed. I looked at the big pile of fresh pine chips underneath and decided he was old enough to figure this one out on his own. He got in the swing, went back and forth a few times, and then flew backwards on to the ground.

It hurt. He cried. I could have caught him, but I didn’t.

I don’t make the right call every time, but kids have taught me the benefit of a little benign neglect. Same goes for editing. Often the best thing I can do for a writer is have a brief, nonchalant conversation and then shut up and take a walk. Nine out ten times they will solve the problem better than I could have.

Well, often my kitchen will teach me lessons about life, but in this case it took 18 years of life lessons to teach me something in the kitchen. Leave well enough alone. I made a reasonably good pot roast last week. First time ever.

I pretended I was my mother-in-law. I tried to look casual, like I really didn’t care, like it was OK, I love you for who you are. Go ahead, be a car mechanic, or a ski instructor, or a waitress, just so long as you are responsible and a good person. (This was her parenting strategy for raising five college graduates.)

Go ahead be a hunk of meat in a pan. Just be decent.

I peeled a couple of carrots and threw them in the pot with what I hope passed for an air of abandon. In one last hold out, I threw in a couple of bay leaves and some mushrooms at the last minute. Salt, pepper, water, couple of whole onions and potatoes, couple of bouillon cubes. Into the oven at 300.

Then the hard part. I let go. And everything was better for it.