If I had a gallon Ziplock of chicken bones for every time I’ve said “Don’t throw out the carcass, I’m gonna make stock” I’d have approximately five gallon Ziplocks of chicken bones. This isn’t a hypothetical. Up until a few days ago, I had that many bags of chicken bones (carcasses, really) taking up space in my freezer. Along with them, a bag and a half of leeks. For over a year, I stubbornly refused to throw any of it away.
Let me preface this by saying I have no problem with store bought stock. What do you think I was using while those carcasses and leeks occupied valuable real estate in my freezer? But as the leaves change colors and I face another cold New York winter (despite the forecast for last weekend saying high 70s?????) I shift into soup mode (see above)
Soup mode is less about the soup itself and more about a state of mind. When I’m in soup mode, I want to be cozy. I want domestic warmth. While I can get those things with a box of stock from the store, I get an extra dose of them when I make the stock myself. So, to rebel against last week’s unseasonably warm weather (maybe to sooth the climate change anxiety it triggered), or perhaps because I was simply in the mood for a kitchen project, last week I finally made the stock I’d been saying I was going to make.
Something I love about making stock is that it encourages improvisation. You can use whatever bones and other meat scraps, vegetables, spices, aromatics, herbs, etc. that you’ve got on hand. This time, I had the aforementioned chicken carcasses and leeks, along with some celery leaves I also found in the freezer. I think an errant garlic clove or two made it in there from one of the chickens as well. I threw everything into my biggest pot, then filled it most of the way with water. Brought it to a boil, then down to a simmer. Kept an eye on it to maintain that slight, bubbling simmer. Ideally, I would have skimmed any fat and scum off the top to keep the stock clear. But I couldn’t be bothered to do it this time and it was fine. There are far worse things than a cloudy stock.
As my stock did its thing on the stovetop, the apartment filled with the aroma of schmaltzy, savory chicken. Shimmering golden pearls of fat rose to the top of the pot. The light parts of the leeks grew translucent like white chiffon. It was my first time using leeks in a stock. Normally, I use yellow onions but we had a surplus of leeks in the freezer. Sometime last year, leeks were on sale on FreshDirect so we added one to our order, and they sent us three of the biggest leeks we’d ever seen. They were so comically large that my partner held them next to our cat for scale (see below). So, we cooked as many of them as we could and froze the rest.
Each frozen chicken carcass was there because, at one point, we’d roasted a chicken for dinner. This typically happens when one or both of us needs familiar and restorative comfort. One time, after recovering from a procedure that left him unable to cook for a week, my partner whipped up an impressive-looking roast chicken with maple and rosemary. It signified to us both that things were returning to normalcy. Another time, I roasted a chicken with lemon and garlic on a Sunday night where I was particularly dreading the coming workweek, and the act of cooking instead of ordering takeout made me feel like I could handle whatever fresh hell was in store for me on Monday. What remained of those and other dinners was now simmering in a pot on my stove, along with the leeks. Together they made a memento of memories inextricably tied to a series of home-cooked dinners (and one ingredient mishap that made us laugh). Homemade stock is, in many ways, a kitchen scrapbook.
Once the stock had simmered for about four hours, I used tongs to take out the big pieces and strained the rest through a colander and then a cheesecloth.
The stock sat in multiple large containers in my fridge for a few days. I used some of it for a single serving of soup, and a little more in a one-skillet pasta (even though the recipe called for plain water). After that, I poured what was left into two gallon Ziplocks (like the ones that stored the carcasses) and laid them flat in my freezer for the coming winter. Someday not far from now, I’ll chisel off a piece when I need something to thaw me from the inside out. It’ll be substantial, velvety, and remind me that in my kitchen there’s always potential for joy and solace.
Such a joy to read! Who knew stock would engross me?? More, please!