I'm not sure when Joe and I first met, but I remember my children were young and didn't allow for much leisure. Nonetheless, we'd chatted enough for him to know that crimes were being committed in my kitchen. Brick after brick of inedible steer masquerading as pot roast emerged from my oven. Numerous recipes from reputable books were tried, proportions and cooking times were fiddled with, but no luck. Solid American meat and potatoes in a pot was clearly not my thing. He insisted it was a matter of attitude and invited me to an informal demonstration at his house, set up, I now suspect, for my benefit alone. I agreed, and, sleep deprived, promptly forgot, so when his gravelly voice demanded over the phone a week or so later, "Well are you coming, or not?" I quickly parked the kids and scurried like a dutiful student up to his Hansel and Gretel house on Woods Road.

Anyone lucky enough to have watched Joe cook in his home knows they've witnessed a unique event. His kitchen was eccentric. Cramped and dark, it exuded a rustic flamboyance that matched his personality. It was a man's kitchen. The stove was encased by a medieval looking stone hearth, countertops were thick butcher block lacquered like the deck of a ship, there was a porcelain sink large enough for a tannery, and there didn't seem to be any drawers or cabinets, but everything he needed was there.

I arrived flushed with embarrassment, but no questions were asked. A deliciously frigid glass of wine was thrust into my hand, and the show began. Joe pulled an iron cauldron from murky storage and chunks of bacon were tossed in to brown. Next, a massive hunk of beef was wrestled into the pot for searing and I watched in alarm as blue smoke billowed upward. "No need to be wimpy about it. It's got to be sort of burnt to be right," he said, hacking vegetables into submission and throwing them in with the meat. Then he pulled out a mustard jar and, grinning, sloshed around a mixture of tomato sauce, beef broth and wine. "They'll tell you you need measurements of this and that, but they're full of it. You've got a little mustard left in a jar, put the other stuff in, and you don't waste anything." I nodded obediently and scribbled down approximations of ingredients. Sweat glistened on Joe's craggy face as he mashed flour in with the vegetables, allowed liquids to overflow into the burners, and piled a field's worth of mushrooms around the meat. Finally, a cover was squeezed over top, and I wondered how food so roughly treated could possibly be any good. Where had people said this guy had trained?

Needless to say, it was the best pot roast I've ever eaten. Full of complex flavor, it was tender and delicious. Joe's exuberance for cooking, for life really, taught me to relax and have fun in the kitchen. I'm no chef, and there are still unfortunate incidents, but I happened to have made a pot roast a few days before Joe passed away, and it was damn good. Joe would have been pleased to know he'd loosened up at least one timid suburban cook. Many thanks.

Pot Roast a la Joe Hyde

-- In a large dutch oven, fry some bacon with a little butter and oil to render the fat

-- Add a 5lb. semi-boneless chuck roast and sear it well on both sides

-- Roughly chop 1 large white onion, 1 stalk celery, 1 carrot, 1/2 a turnip, and 2 cloves garlic

-- Cut the end from an orange, avoiding the white pith

-- In a clean coffee grinder, grind up 1 tsp. peppercorns, 4 cloves & a pinch of dried thyme.

-- Combine about 1/2 cup each white wine, tomato sauce and beef broth

-- Slice 1lb. mushrooms

-- When meat is browned, add vegetables (except for mushrooms), ground spices, and 2 bay leaves

-- Add 1/4 cup flour when vegetables have softened

-- Add mushrooms, wine mixture and about 2 cups beef broth

-- Cover and cook in a 300 degree oven for about 1& 1/2 hours until meat is very tender

-- Season to taste with salt and pepper

(I usually add peeled and quartered potatoes about 45 minutes before meat is done)