It was Sunday. It snowed all day.

I was reminded of the last paragraph of “The Dead” by James Joyce, widely considered to be his best short story, called by the New York Times “just about the finest short story in the English language” and by T.S. Eliot as one of the greatest short stories ever written.

"A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."

 I made Beef Bourguignon for dinner to warm our hearts and souls and to help us forget, at least for a few minutes, the snow and cold outside our home.

This recipe is a fairly simple version; not as complex as this one from Joel Robuchon, but still delicious.

Here’s the recipe and the book in which it simmers.