Michael Ruhlman may just be a culinary hero of mine, but he may very well be a food prophet for the world; one that wanders in the desolation of modernized convenience and manufactured foods to bring a few simple stone tablets declaring that truth in cooking is found best in methods performed in your own kitchen, by your own two hands, because food and the way we approach it matters.

To such ends that I partake of the words of the seer and do my best to explore new-found worlds, I took it upon myself this past week to use his recipe to create my own corned beef. I figured I had little to lose, ultimately, and potentially a lot to gain from the experience. Plus, I’ve always been fond of soaking meat in brines of all sorts because they transform under the pressures of salt and time into new creations.

Two chuck roasts — chosen because they were significantly cheaper than a full brisket and I figured it’s best to ensure I was successful first — were soaked in the prescribed brine solution for six days. I procured some pink salt (sodium nitrite) from an online source for the most-essential preservative portion of the brine and to ensure a good, solid red color throughout.

Six days in the fridge, covered in brine, anchored to the bottom of a pan with a heavy plate. It was a long time to wait and hope that I was creating a marvel and not a fuzzy mold farm. Cooking with old methods like this is most definitely an effort in faith.

Last night I extracted the meat from its bath and rinsed it thoroughly, noting that the feel of it had changed from a pliable, meaty feel to a more solid, waxy touch. The two chunks were then dropped into my large cast iron pot (which you may have when you pry it from my cold, dead hands), covered in water, spices, and a mirepoix, and set to simmer on the stove for about 3 hours.

In the meantime, I busied myself making cabbage to go along, since it seemed like the proper accompaniment to such an iconic meal. Rendered bacon fat and water steamed up a head and a half of cabbage, sprinkled with thyme. I then tossed the bacon back in and sautéed it until the chopped leaves were translucent and golden. A bit of salt here, pepper there, and it was ready to go.

Extracting the corned beef from the pot and slicing it into manageable chunks was nothing less than equivalent to Christmas morning and the promise of untold wonders to be revealed. As the first slices fell away from my knife’s bold statement, this brilliant red, flaky meat burst into view, sending my spirits soaring. As all good chefs do, a personal sample was quick to follow.

When it’s so damned good, it makes me giggle in happiness. And I was a ball of laughter.

I made quick work of the rest, laid it on a suitable platter, piled another high with the cabbage, and with some included buttered fresh bread, the meal was complete. All ate and were satisfied.

To know that I was able to take something that’s been done for years and to make it work in my own kitchen was simply amazing and horribly fulfilling at the same time. If you have the means and the drive, I sincerely hope you will give this a shot — you will be forever grateful that you connected with your food in such an intimate way.