I stuck a lidded pot full of lamb (on the bone of course), whole garlic cloves and whole shallots, in the oven three hours ago. And my, my, my, it is smelling gooood.
After rifling in the fridge for a bit I settled for carrots, new potatoes and beetroot to be roasted alongside the lamb. There was also a monster celeriac lingering in the fridge drawer that really had to be used soon, so it was promptly sliced very thinly, and layered in a buttered baking dish. Some cream was chucked over, a few lumps of butter dotted were over the surface, and into the oven that went. Sort of like a celeriac dauphinoise I suppose, as there was no cheese involved.
Celeriac & I have a fraught relationship, as it's smell when raw is reminiscent of some vile medicine I had to force down as a child. How unfortunate then that I still have celeriac-odour lingering in my hands, despite having washed them three times. It's also the bane of everyone's veg box, sitting there all lumpily like the prize no-one wanted at a fair. Poor, poor celeriac. It's not really it's fault that it happens to be a hideous root, desperate to be loved as much as the humble potato.
The photo really isn't up to much, so I'll describe it instead: the beetroot stained the carrots an amazing vivid purple, the celeriac was delicious and creamy (I'll have to take sister no.2's word for it since I didn't eat any), the beetroot was outstanding and went surprisingly well with the lamb, but the best part was the roasted garlic and shallots which we squidged out of their skins. They were mellow and soft and utterly beautiful.
10.00pm: Mother just made a chocolate and beetroot cake to take into work tomorrow. Why must I be tempted with cakey wafts of goodness coming from the kitchen? Ugh.