A slow Sunday afternoon, a grey sky outside the windows. It’s exactly the moment to put a goulash on the stove. While the pot simmers quietly, you have two hours to do absolutely anything else.
The sauce is a deep red, almost brick-colored, with oily glints that catch the light. The pieces of beef have surrendered all resistance—they almost fall apart just by looking at them. A warm scent of paprika and melted onions rises from the pot, something between caramel and dried earth. It’s the kind of dish that makes people get up from their sofa without needing to be called.
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