Beets

“I don’t know,” I whined pathetically. “I’m feeling terribly uninspired. Got any ideas?” Boss Man had just inquired into my culinary well being. “Cooked anything lately?” he’d asked conversationally.

I had set a date, invited guests, and all that remained for feast 18 was to decide on the meal itself. An insignificant detail one might think, given my cavalier attitude. But the day was approaching and I hadn’t given due thought to the menu. “Something wintry, warm . . .” I mumbled broadly. Fortunately, Boss Man came to the rescue. All it took was a speculative moment frowning at his coffee roaster and he had a plan: oxtail slowly braised in a rich liquid of stock, red wine, and Guinness. Couple this with a root vegetable puree, and you had an entree. I was beginning to work up some enthusiasm for this feast.

At regular intervals throughout the days that followed, Boss Man came up with additions to the menu: a guild-the-lily mustard cream garnish, suggestions for a variety of different finishes to the dish, more vegetable suggestions. “What have you got as a starter?” He queried one morning. “I, err, hadn’t got that far yet,” I admitted sheepishly. A momentary reproving grin crossed his face, and was followed, predictably, by an answer: Beets.

I decided on a recipe for roasted beets marinated in orange, olive oil, and red wine vinegar, tossed in toasted fennel seeds and topped with goat cheese—a simple, fresh contrast to the rich oxtail to follow. Also, they could be prepared ahead and refrigerated; a host’s dream. So the evening before, I set about the task: roasting the ruby globes whole, wading in their bath of orange juice and covered with foil to capture every ounce of moisture. Once they’d cooled a little from the oven, I took each one and scraped the peel off, their bright magenta dye splashing across my palms and fingers, seeping into the skin. Next the beets were sliced into generous wedges and the marinade poured on top.

I was about to pitch them into the fridge for the night, but couldn’t resist one quick taste. Standing by the kitchen sink, I picked one wedge from the bowl with my still crimson fingers.

Eating beets is like imbibing everything that is sweet and rich in the soil. They taste to me like earth encapsulated in a potent, misshapen orb. The layers of beet slipped apart on my tongue, the texture perfect—firm at first, giving way to a lush juicy sweetness. As usual with taste, an image came welling up into my consciousness: this time I was lying on my stomach, burying my face in the green grass, inhaling my favorite smell on earth: the inebriating aroma of loosened, Spring clay, just after a late frost has released its grip on the land, just after the sun has won it annual victory.