Methods of broth

Simmering-sick-a-fantic-prick!
I marinade him every which day. So he will stay. In lonely,once opened,keep refrigerated. In best before home.

Within days,he's broken down my tough connective tissues,mosturised me slowly. It's been so long since my body was cooked so tenderly and thoroughly.

Long,slow.
His method of dry heat,cooks me sweetly.
The inherent tenderness of my sort of cut, he's never met before. He tells me.
Baby squat down. Don't ever stop serving me!

Weeks and months have passed by. And he's started to store me in his freezer. Taking me out to thaw. Then cooking me, immersed in fat. I love it when he deep-fat-fries me. Immersed in his fat. It suffocates me.

Now suddenly out of that. He tells me that he feels steam trapped. And he needs to be held in a covered container or foil wrap.

But the source of the steam,may be water added to our juices,creating braised chunks of rump,that shouldn't be here.
He doesn't care. His method of colluding ,with even more tender cuts than me. Keeps him looking rare!

Years have bitten back.
Now I don't care what he does. Even though care should be taken not to let the temperature of our liquidised,eat meat feast exceed 195°F,because boiling (212°F) toughens further what was once sweet meat.

I know that he's met new tender cuts of meat, trembling in-between sheets of protein.

I wish I cared.
Enough to walk away.
Leaving this method actor. Home alone. But not before I use his liquid as a base for soup.

Let's see how much meat he can stock up and consume.
Eventually he'll become sick.

My sick-a-fantic-prick-now broth.
I can't give you up.
Breathe fire into my hurt.











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