Taking Stock

Henry, your crabgrass is better than my lobster pot.

~ P.D.Q. Bach

During the hot summer months, I turn into a bone collector. More accurately, I turn into a collector of bones, shells and carapaces.

Who, in July and August, wants to fill an already tropical kitchen with more steam than absolutely necessary? I sure don't. In fact, I try to use my gorgeous Wolf stove as little as possible during the dog days, because the thing radiates BTUs like a locomotive boiler. Since I am reluctant to turn on the AC just so I can cook, various projects are put on hold until the cooler months of autumn arrive and I can employ the burners without causing rippling heatwaves and mirages at the western end of the house.

Chief among these projects is stock-making. All summer long, I conscientiously collect potential ingredients and hoard them in my freezer, waiting not-so-patiently for the weather to break so I can get on with the task at hand. By the time October rolls around, the cold chest is bursting with the remains of the various creatures we've been noshing on all summer long. This past weekend, with the thermometer suddenly dropping below 60 deg. F, I judged the time to be ripe for my first fall batch of liquid love - lobster stock!

I enjoy stock-making, but now that gluten-freedom requires the use of hitherto untried grains such as quinoa, having a good supply of stock to cook them in takes on a whole new urgency. Store-bought ones are fine, I suppose, but when you make them at home you find yourself suffused with a virtuous feeling that can't be beat. Also, you know exactly what's in them. And it's a great way to use up all your leftover bits and pieces - which in this age of new frugality is a definite bonus. Plus, the aromas in the kitchen are heavenly when stock is on the stove.

I usually try to have supplies of chicken and beef stock on hand in the freezer (I generally make vegetable stock a la minute), but lobster stock is the gold standard, in my opinion: its mild, mysterious flavor is the perfect base for my famous Risotto alla Scozzese and, of course, without it I can't make Sauce Americaine to gussy up plain fish dishes.

I set aside Sunday afternoon for the task. When I opened the freezer, the remains of four lobsters fell out - three were ours and one was from DMR, who bartered its shell for the promise of a tubful of the final elixir. One can make stock with less, but four biggish lobsters seem to fill my 10 quart spaghetti pot admirably.

Here's how I made the lobster stock. I melted a biggish blob of butter in the pot and added three Spanish onions, roughly chopped, and five medium-sized carrots, also roughly chopped. I cooked them for a while, then turned to the last of the tomatoes that gardeners have insisted on giving me until the summer's bitter end - I had three huge specimens that finally turned from green to red last week. I peeled and seeded them, chopped them, and added them to the pot as well. I threw in some thyme from the garden and a couple of dried bayleaves from a jar (I can't get a bay tree to grow in my exposed yard, though it is not for lack of trying). I cooked all this together for a few more minutes, then added the lobster shells and gave it another vigorous stir. For liquid, I used about two cups of dry vermouth with enough added water to cover the shells. I agitated the ingredients one more time, brought them to the boil, and then let them simmer, covered, for about an hour and a half. Every so often, I checked the pot's progress, but it seemed quite content to do its thing without my interference.

The poor wee beasties simmering away:
a bay leaf is clearly visible at one o'clock

What with the stockpot at one end of the house and the burning logs in the fireplace at the other, the temperature went up eight degrees and the central heating switched off. It was quite cozy lingering by the stove, catching up on Facebook and drinking Earl Grey until I judged the shells were exhausted and the stock was finished.

I poured the whole lot through a huge colander lined with cheesecloth (the same large square in which I steamed the quinoa - I calculate this piece of cotton has been in the family for about eight years now and fully plan to bequeath it to the Kid Squid in my will) and then poured the stock back into a clean saucepan. I reduced it by about half (this took another thirty minutes) and ended up with four Indian take-out containers' worth of concentrated nectar. Even having given one away, the remaining three will last months and months - not a bad return on two hours' work.

And of course, virtue is its own reward.



Amrita of lobster: see how it glows!