My pal Liz has been making bone broth for years, thanks to friends who supply her with bones from their small herd of organically raised cows. After listening to her rave about this curative concoction, I decided to accept Liz’s offer of a few bones and brew some broth myself.
(Note to listener: I often make chicken stock, and I have no idea if or why it’s considered inferior to the bovine variety. But based on how much Whole Foods and co. charge for beef-based bone broth, mine is either sadly lacking something or we’re all buying a load of hooey. Literally.)
Liz texts to say she’s on her way with fresh bones. I have a few gallon-sized bags at the ready, and I’ve rearranged my freezer to make room for the incoming delivery. I open my front door and see Liz straining to lift a gigantic, bulging, industrial-strength garbage bag. This is not a job for freezer bags.
Inside the black sack is a bloody carcass. Well, parts of a bloody carcass, anyway. Oh, look! A femur. Why, hello, tibia! I see bits of red and white marbled flesh still clinging to the pure white bones.
This is where I tell you I’m a vegetarian in spirit. I spent fourteen years as a vegetarian in practice. I really, really don’t like touching, preparing, or even thinking about meat (especially you, raw chicken). Even eggs can make me squeamish (what is that weird squiggly thing attached to the yolk, anyway?). If it weren’t for my family members who love burgers and steak, I’d happily live on veggies, grains, and a few bites of Brie. Right now, peering into the trash bag filled with the heavy, iron-infused odor of raw meat, I feel a little ill.
Regardless, I manage to stuff in the bulky black bag into my freezer and shove the door closed. For the next two days, I periodically open it a crack, peek inside, and then slam it shut. When my husband complains there’s no room for ice cream, I haul out the bones and get to work.
The bones are so big they stick out several inches above the top of my tallest soup pot, which I’ve filled with water, onion, carrots, bay leaves, garlic, and seasonings, plus a couple of tablespoons of white vinegar. Vinegar, Liz assures me, is critical for drawing out the marrow. Apparently, marrow is where the magic lies. I try to think about other things—like lentils—and turn up the heat under the pot. When the broth starts to bubble, the stench of boiling bones fills the house. I’m supposed to cook this stinky stock for 24 hours. About ten minutes in, I start to gag and open every window in the house.
“What died in here?” asks my husband, coming into the kitchen in search of snacks. “Something smells disgusting.”
I completely agree. But then I think about bone broth’s incredible health benefits: protection from winter colds! Immunity against flu! Higher I.Q.! Okay, I made up the last one, but I need some reason to keep this odiferous elixir simmering for two days straight. I’m going to finish what I started, dammit.
After two days of constant cooking (plus constant complaining about the smell from my family and constant lurking near the stove by my dog), I declare the bone broth done. Liz calls and asks how it tastes.
“Great!” I lie. Truth is, I simply cannot bring myself to sample what I’ve been simmering. My inner vegetarian, who finds this entire process revolting, is revolting. And I haven’t even completed the next fun step: Refrigerating the broth so a thick, dense layer of white cow fat coagulates on top, which I will then scrape off.
“Don’t throw away the tallow,” says my dad, a dedicated carnivore who has been tracking my bone broth adventure with interest. “That ‘beef butter’ is gold!”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I tell him as I scrape it into the garbage. Gross.
Another 24 hours later, I’ve strained, measured, and poured my bone broth into individually labeled freezer bags, ready to serve as the base for soup or for sipping straight. Problem is, I still haven’t tasted it. I gave a little to my dog, though, and she seemed to like it. So that’s something.
For me, making bone broth was one of those life experiences that you have to go through—all the way through—to figure out if it’s right for you. Now that I’ve done it, I’m officially declaring that bone broth is all wrong for me.
On the other hand, kombucha. Seems this fermented, vinegary drink also has magical powers, and no living creatures (let alone carcasses) are involved in the making of this beverage. Unless you consider a SCOBY—a Symbiotic Culture Of Bacteria and Yeast—to be a living creature.
Which I don’t.
I think.
