http://www.thekitchn.com/feedburnermain
I was 12 years old and living in Jakarta, Indonesia when my mother set a bowl of soup in front of me, coiling tendrils of steam rising like my suspicion.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Sop buntut,” she said. Indonesian oxtail soup. I did not want to eat the tail of an ox. I told her no.
She raised an eyebrow. “Remember what happened with the pistachio ice cream.”
The pistachio ice cream story is a cautionary tale, and an effective one, so I sipped the ambrosial broth, engulfed by the heady perfume of cloves. The oxtail was cooked to perfection, beef slipped from the bone to mingle with the tang of carrots and leeks, a peppering of crispy shallots. It was divine.
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