Just like Mom used to make

When I was a young girl, my republican-born parents went through a weird period that I now recognize as midlife crisis. No red cars or mistresses here, though, nope, my Dad, a mild-mannered mechanical engineer by day, spent his evenings poring over publications like the Whole Earth Catalog and seemingly endless volumes of the Foxfire Book.

One weekend, I came across my father stirring a foul-smelling pot suspended over the barbecue in the backyard. It seems he had bargained with someone at church for the fat from their 4-H project pig, and armed with lye from the hardware store, he was cooking up a batch of soap. He proudly informed us that not only would we be able to bathe with it, but we could grate it for use as laundry soap! My 13-year old self recoiled in horror at the thought, and my sympathetic friends made sure I got lots of overly-scented soaps for my birthday. The experiment was only a mild success: the hard water in Redding made it all but impossible to lather with, so we figured he had set us up with camping soap for life.

Another chapter in this midlife adventure was devoted to corning beef. My mother and father must have spent hours hatching this plan, for one Friday my mother came home with an earthenware crock from an antique store and a rather large cut of beef. She and my dad spent most of the following day concocting the brine that was to transform this lowly rump into authentic corned beef.

For three months, the hunk of meat soaked in the corner of the breakfast room, in its crock covered by a board, held down by a brick (to keep the dog out). Every now and then Mom would let us lift the lid and we would make sure it was still submerged. It endured much speculation and levity concerning its future edibility, and my brother and I rushed our friends past it, hoping they wouldn't notice.

Finally, my parents pronounced it ready (not sure how they could tell). It spent half a day in the dutch oven making the house smell heavenly, and we had no problem overcoming the gross factor to consume the fork-tender flesh. Indeed, we demolished it in one sitting.

Emboldened by their taste success (it tasted a gazillion times better than anything from the store), and the fact that no one had been poisoned, my folks immediately set about making a second one. Mom even picked up a second crock so we wouldn't have to wait two months between them, and Daddy fitted them with round plywood lids.

But after a week, it was clear that something was horribly wrong: it smelled suspect, and it was clear we had failed. The remains were carried out to the curb at arms' length, and the house was aired out. We only ever ate the pink corned beef from the supermarket after that.

Nowadays, though, I can buy uncured ("grey") corned beef at the co-op, made the same way Mom used to (though I'm pretty sure it doesn't have to endure snide remarks like my family made). This year, I'm giving it the slow roast treatment in the Römertopf with a splash of hard cider. I'll add some wedges of Savoy cabbage when the time is right. And after supper, we shall head over to our Irish neighbors to raise a glass to St. Paddy.