It’s not easy being me

Last night we made a risotto with Amarone della Valpolicella, a salad of fresh fennel and parmesan, osso bucco with the classic soffritto of carrot, celery and onion that I first caramelized and flavored with a squeeze of tomato paste toasted in the pan, and for dessert we had apple tarts. Not because they are Italian, but because I love apple tarts.
As much as I wish that everything would turn out exactly as I wished it, it doesn’t always happen. I could wish harder I supppose, or I could cover the osso bucco with a little more foil than what I had to stretch across from side to side. If the pan isn’t covered tightly with just a slit cut with a sharp knife to let the steam escape, then the liquid escapes too quickly from bottom of the pan. The meat begins to dry itself like a hide left out in the desert sun and all hope for tenderness is lost.
I’m always trying to tell Ferdinand that the winner is the one who can make the most and even more from his mistakes, so I took the opportunity to stress a life lesson not be missed. Try, try again.
The truth is, I hate trying to be resourceful when my meat is parched. I would much rather hurl the dish and all its contents into the trash, down the remaining Amarone to drown my troubles and curse the flimsy no good aluminum foil this country has to offer.

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