The Skimming Debate

May twenty-sixth. The soup was Simone's idea, technically. She mentioned it at the end of Tuesday's session, something about a chicken stock she'd made that week, the bones from a rotisserie, the whole thing. I said I'd never actually made stock, just used the cartons, and she gave me a look that was not unkind but was also not ambiguous. So that's how we ended up in my kitchen on a Sunday afternoon with a pot that was too big for what we were making and a genuine disagreement about skimming.

The argument was about whether you have to skim the foam off the top as it comes up, or whether it matters, or whether anyone can actually taste the difference. Simone's position was yes, always, it's not optional. My position was that I'd read contradictory things and that contradictory things cancel out. She stirred the pot. I held my ground for about four minutes and then also started skimming, because the foam was there and it seemed wrong to leave it. We did not resolve this.

She was wrong about the skimming. (She was not wrong about the skimming.)

What I did not expect was how long stock takes. I knew this in the abstract, I'd read it, but knowing a thing and standing in a kitchen at four-fifteen watching almost nothing happen are different experiences. Simone made tea. I moved Gerald two inches to the right and then back. We talked about nothing in particular and then about something specific that I'm not going to write about yet because I haven't figured out what I think. The kitchen smelled very good. The afternoon light came through at the angle it only does in late May and hit the pot and the open shelf behind it, and I propped my phone up on the shelf and let it take a picture because it seemed like the kind of thing worth keeping.

The stock was fine. Better than fine, actually. I portioned it into two jars and Simone took one home, which felt correct. The pot is still soaking. The skimming question remains technically open, though I think we both know how it's going to land eventually.