Venison, a missing orange and a better idea
Katerina Pavlakis 
How dinner decides itself
Yesterday’s dinner started with a bit of luck.
My husband walked into the butcher's and found they had cubed venison from a local estate. A rare find. Proper stuff. So of course we had to have it.
I’ve barely cooked venison before, so I did what most people do: I went looking for clues.
Not recipes exactly. More like flavour directions.
Not recipes exactly. More like… flavour directions.
Venison stew. Venison ragout. Venison with citrus... that one clicked.
And it made sense. It’s January. Citrus season. Sharp, bright, a bit fruity. Just the thing for a rich, dark meat.
Except.
We had no citrus. All gone in the shop. None left at home.
So that option disappeared.
What we did have was onions. And dried mushrooms.
So I started cooking.
Soaking the mushrpooms. Choppingf the onions. Lettingf them soften, slow and patient, to caramelise properly.
I was vaguely thinking about cream at this point.
Maybe a creamy sauce.
Maybe.
Then I spotted the pomegranate molasses.
Fruity. Sour. Sweet.
Exactly the role citrus would have played.
So I added a few good splashes to the pan.
And suddenly the sauce made sense.
Deep, savoury, slightly sharp, just enough sweetness.
Time for the cream idea to disappear too.
Cream would have blurred the edges. The fruitiness needed clarity, not comfort. So I left it out.
The venison got a quick flash fry, then went into the sauce just long enough to finish cooking. No long stewing for lean meat.
We ate it with celeriac mash.
It was wonderful.
.
And here’s the thing:
This wasn’t wild creativity. Or big confidence. And it definitely wasn’t winging it.
It was a series of very ordinary decisions:
What season are we in? What flavour direction does this ingredient usually like? What am I trying to add here… richness, sharpness, sweetness? What do I actually have that could do that job? And just as importantly: What doesn’t fit here anymore?
.
That’s how my brain cooks.
Not by following a plan from start to finish.
But by responding, adjusting, and letting the food tell me when it’s done.
You don’t need a recipe for that.
You need permission to think in roles instead of rules.
And to trust that if something tastes good halfway through, you’re probably on the right track.
.
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PS. This is exactly the kind of thinking I teach in my workshops. Not what to cook, but how to decide. Once you can think in patterns rather tha recipes, dinner gets a lot easier.
