It's an odd bit of meat: a band of muscle that goes from side to side of the beast at what is technically called the "arse end'. Its job is basically just to be there and, by its presence, prevent the bladder and guts from falling out, with possibly disastrous, and certainly unsightly, consequences. (Disastrous for the cow, anyway.) A worthy job, that of organic hernia girdle and doubtless a fine example of evolution making do with what it's got to work with, but not, let it be admitted, particularly glamorous.
Don't bother looking for it at your local butcher: you will not find it, for the French do not cut up their beasts as the English do, and in fact I'm not even sure there's a word for it in English. I suppose the closest approximation would be skirt steak.
Slice the thing with the grain into 2" wide strips, then - with a sharp knife, remember - slice those thinly across the grain, and it asks only to be marinated with a bit of soy sauce and sesame oil before swishing around in a damned hot wok for a minute, no more. What you do with it from that point on is up to you.
Don't know why I made you suffer through that, maybe just remembering last night's dinner, out on the terrace in the evening under a clear starry sky. Anyway, we just bought a little circular saw attachment for the Dremel which would be absolutely perfect for trepanning, so our next little
Completely à propos of nothing in particular, I came across a quote the other day from no less a luminary than Bjarne Stroustrup who is, for those of you not in computing, the guy that is vilified/adored as the man responsible for the Baroque edifice that is C++. Which is not really to the point, and the fact that the fellow (who had to be Swedish, didn't he) has single-handedly caused more misery than anyone since the ill-famed Griswold family (and there were three of them) of SNOBOL infamy is not particularly relevant.
We've had two weeks so far of weather that can only be described as "changeable": oppressive, hot and sticky, with the threat of a thunderstorm alwasy present. Take yesterday, for instance: gray and overcast in the morning as I wandered around the market, then suddenly the clouds disappeared and we took the apéro and remade the world under the parasols at le Refuge.
Fortunately their parasol is heavy-duty and does a pretty good job as an umbrella, so we didn't bother to shift, just sat and ate and drank and talked as the rain drummed on the canvas above us.
And as luck would have it, on returning home we discovered that we had in fact remembered to close the velux before leaving. Just as well, as we were not really in any state to spend half an hour mopping up the floors before flopping into bed.
So we've another ten days or so rattling around the house and being able to count on the contents of the fridge remaining more or less as expected, without sudden disappearals overnight, and the freezer will no longer be full of frozen gummy bears.
And then, a few days after his return, it's off to Pesselière for the family reunion: us, the Parisians, the English cousins, Mal (just back from Peru or whatever, and doubtless totally jet-lagged) and Tony, and of course Jeannie, freshly arrived from NooZild.
We'll worry about that when the moment arrives, I suppose. Mind how you go now.