French roast heaven

Cooking is the most inexact of inexact sciences. So inexact in fact, that Inexact got offended, pompously reminding me that its definition is "Not strictly accurate or precise," which implies that it is at least partly exact. Why couldn't it be as purely exact as mathematics or astrology? Now those are some nice, exact sciences! Wiki's definition of an exact science:

"[...] predictions, and their verification, are possible, by measurement, experiment, observation, and rigorous logical argument."

That is SO astrology! I suspect there might be dissension among the ranks at this bold statement but we shall reserve this argument for another day. Today we talk about the wildly inaccurate science that is cooking. Some of you may want want to call it art. I refuse to do so. I like to associate art with beauty. Sure, some chefs create breathtaking meals. I'll gladly call the meal a culinary work of art. But not the act of "cooking." There's nothing beautiful about mashing some grease, flour and eggs with your bare hands or chopping bits of tendon and fat off a gooey chicken leg.

A couple days ago I was walking aimlessly in the grocery store when suddenly, a divine beam of neon light shone down on the most gorgeous piece of (animal) meat I had ever seen. It was love at first sight. It had to be mine. Once at home, I gave it a prime spot on the top shelf of my fridge, a spot fit for a king, all by itself and far from the other proletarian victuals that populate the lower shelves. For two days I sighed appreciatively every time I opened the fridge door and the light, reminiscent of that divine beam of light that had brought us together, illuminated my glorious roast. Alas, this love story had to come to an end and I could think of no noblest tribute for such passion than this roast ending in my stomach.

And this is where things got complicated. I have never roasted beef before. I've never roasted anything at all, actually. I could figure out the basics, but I needed help for the tricky part, the cooking time. The following is a quotation from a most helpful website:

"Cooking at a constant oven temperature of 300°F (160°C), a 5- to 8-lb standing rib roast will take 17-19 minutes per pound for rare, 20-22 for medium rare, 23-25 minutes for medium, and 27-30 minutes for well done. A sirloin roast of 8- to 12-lbs will take 16-20 minutes for rare, 20-22 for medium rare, 23-25 for medium, and 26-30 for well done. A boneless top round, by contrast, will take 28-30 minutes for rare, 30-33 for medium rare, 34-38 for medium, and 40-45 for well done. If you roast at 325°F (160°C), subtract 2 minutes or so per pound. If the roast is refrigerated just before going into the oven, add 2 or 3 minutes per pound."

Easy! So. My roast is 'inside of round', whatever that means. Is that closer to 'standing rib', 'sirloin' or 'boneless top'? It matters! Because, notice this frightful snippet? "By contrast"? That's potential for disaster there! My roast weighs 2.2 lbs. Not 5 to 8 lbs nor 8 to 12! How does that affect the calculations?

Assuming the ratio of cooking time in relation to total roast weight is a linear progression, and assuming my 'inside round' is somewhere between 'sirloin' and 'standing rib', I estimate the cooking time for my french roast (doesn't that sound distinguished?) to be:

(21*2.2/((8-5)/2 + 5) - 21 2.2/((12-8)/2 + 8))/2 + 21*2.2/((12-8)/2 + 8)) = 5.87 min per lb + 2.5 min per lb for being refrigerated - 2 min for doing it at 325°F (calculations done for medium rare) = total cooking time of...

14.01 minutes! Err. Somehow that doesn't sound right. Oh what the hell. I'll just put it in for 40 minutes at 350 and eat whatever comes of it. 40 is a holy number after all. Noah's flood lasted 40 days and 40 nights. Jesus was tempted in the desert for 40 days and 40 nights. He ascended to heaven 40 days after the resurrection. How could my roast not ascend to roast heaven if cooked for 40 minutes? You can't possibly go wrong with the number 40. The very exact science of astrology says it's one of my lucky numbers anyway!

Well. The roast is now eaten and I mourn its loss. When it was over, I chanted a poignant elegy that would have made the most radical vegan weep for its beauty.

How was it? Why, but it was a culinary masterpiece, of course!