Braised Oxtail

Michael Franti wrote a song called “Everyday Life Has Become A Health Risk.” No explanation necessary, right?

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So, food. It feels insane to discuss food right now. The United States is collapsing and we’re talking about oxtail? Well, we still need to eat. And we must escape, if only momentarily.

In discussing oxtail braises, recipes writers invariably invoke adjectives like wintry, icy, evening, and comforting. These writers are not wrong. Leave it to the IK to remember this dish on the warmest day in months, a day when the heat is off, the windows open, her woolen slippers kicked aside. This, friends, is when your hostess recalls oxtail.

Never mind. Rain is in the forecast. The temperature drops as she writes.

Oxtail takes its sweet time to cook. This poses no problem for the preparer: simply pop your tail, or more realistically, tails, into a slow oven or crock pot. Occupy yourself calling senators, writing emails, unfriending alt-right relatives, or just freaking the fuck out.

There’s plenty to keep a person busy these days

The IK came to eating oxtails late in life, for no other reason than she’d never encountered them, attached to oxen or otherwise. When she finally did see oxtails arranged in the butcher case, she bought them, found them perfectly nice, and that was that. Later, on learning oxtail is considered a variety meat, often not coming from actual oxen, she grew confused. But the IK is permanently confused these days. She is not alone.

You’ll notice this recipe is Asian in nature, what with the soy sauce, rice wine, and star anise. The Chinese, being more advanced in textural matters, adore oxtail.

Note the call for palm sugar. Lacking it, use brown. Either will work. The palm sugar pictured is shaped so because it’s formed in halved coconut shells, a detail the IK found interesting. Palm sugar is hard to crumble by hand–at least, it is around here–but easily broken using a sharp knife. It will dissolve when heated.

The sprinkling of star anise in the photograph is purely for aesthetic purposes: use only one for the recipe, or they’ll take over.  Wouldn’t this make a lovely flag? The Republic of Palm Sugar, One Nation Under Star Anise.

It’s been a tough week around here. You have no idea.

The original recipe comes from Jennifer McLagan’s Bones: Recipes, History, and Lore. It calls for orange peel during cooking. But we had no oranges. Somebody home from work, a person who managed to acquire what we’ll call rolling pneumonia (people, he ain’t walking), kind of ate the oranges. Recalling a Diana Henry recipe for pork belly, the IK consulted Plenty. Aha. Henry uses rice vinegar. The IK cautiously added a teaspoon and tasted. Yes. The vinegar toned down an otherwise brassy sauce.

While you can chow down right away, your oxtail will benefit enormously from a nice long rest. If overnight is the best you can manage, that’s great. Two days is ideal.

During this time, the dish will mellow, the ingredients will meld, and the fat will congeal, rising to the top, where you can easily remove it with an implement (if you are civilized), or your fingers (if you are mimicking the rest of society).

While the IK’s oxtail rested in her fridge, she went shopping, returning with some blood oranges. Curious, she followed McLagan’s final recipe instructions, which call for adding the juices of the peeled orange to the oxtail sauce.

Of course, not for nothing is McLagan a recognized cooking authority and all-around genius. The dish transformed: dully brown to brightly fabulous. Nature. It’s a thing. Provided we don’t totally wreck it.

As the orange is so glorious against the brown braise, I suggest serving it at table, so diners can add it themselves. This assumes guests or significant others sober enough to handle such tasks.

If you can find blood oranges, so much the better.

Should inebriation be an issue, add the orange juice in the kitchen. And hide the car keys.

Oxtail cries out for lots and lots of rice. If you are virtuous, you probably stopped reading a long time ago, but spinach, cooked for five seconds, would be nice here, or one of those bagged baby salads (which we all pretend not to buy) with the darker leaves in them.

If oxtails are scarce in your part of town, short ribs work nicely. If you aren’t in the mood for Asian flavors, seek professional help. No, seriously, go the Italian route: make the dish with a 15-ounce can of crushed tomatoes and their juices, some red wine, two or three large garlic cloves, sliced onion, salt, pepper, hot red pepper if you like, and some olive oil. Brown the beef, and cook as below; eat with pasta or good bread.

Keep fighting.