Beef stroganoff and Bruce Springsteen.

That clichéd Russian casserole dish from what, the 1950s? 1970s? had been in the oven for several hours the other day, using cubed gravy beef, rather than strips of whatever: fillet? scotch? rump? 

Anyway, the whole thing is a sham. Onions, mushrooms and wine were not in an early Russian recipe. On the other hand, cubed beef - rather than strips to be sautéed - were. Who cares about genuine? In the 1960s they invented manufactured stroganoff mix, in a packet. They sold millions. Convenience food. 

I had shaken the cubed beef in a sealed bag with enough flour to coat it and enough paprika to colour the flour. And salt. And pepper. Then I had sealed the beef in oil in an open pan, transferring it to a casserole with a scattering of marjoram, and then sautéing a couple of thinly sliced onions in the same pan with some halved button mushrooms, before removing them to the casserole. Then a good amount of white wine and beef stock had been sloshed into the pan to coax out the cooked bits of intense flavour that would otherwise be left behind like Noah's third animals. That covered the beef.

The oven had been on 150 celsius for several hours, and I had been out in the cold with the latest greyhound. He, named on his kennel papers as 'Bruce', was the strongest of any of the dozens of dogs I have hosted over the years. Seeing a cat in the distance, he lurched as if touched with a cattle prod. It took all my six-foot-plus strength to restrain him. But in the house he is a gentle giant. The ten-year-old, about to turn eleven, encircles his neck with her arms, without bending. She plays with his ears; they are warm, black, velvet.

Bruce, of course, is a thoroughly ridiculous name for a dog. The dogs pass so quickly through the system that it seems they have a book of names from the 1960s and they are up to page 17 of 350. Brian, Bruce, Bryce. I renamed him Bruce Springsteen, a title that has a much wider sense of personality and prospective-dog-owner appeal. I will not charge the greyhound adoption program for my marketing skills.

We were walking through the northern memorial gardens now, five in the afternoon, cold, and that late-winter copper glow in the western sky. We were crossing a south lawn and the rows and rows of standard roses - literally hundreds of them - dividing the Catholic A from the Greek C section were newly pruned. Their stark trimmed canopies looked like hundreds of frozen, unclenched, dead hands entreating the leaden skies for spring sunshine to free them into movement.

Bruce Springsteen had been pulling, so I already had a cautious grip on the leash when he launched. A rabbit had shot from behind a headstone. It skittered away and disappeared. Bruce Springsteen did a 360 twirl like that BMX gold medallist. If the leash had given way it would have been a job to retrieve him. Or maybe not. It held. Another rabbit, farther away, was a two-second horizontal sightline before vanishing. Bruce Springsteen and I motored, joined by the leash.

We exited out a small gate in the south. It was almost dark now, and we walked the quiet cold streets, past yellow-lit winter windows in houses from which came the aromas of dinner. 

About seven p.m. the casserole came out steaming, and I folded half a pack of sour cream through it gently, so as not to break up the beef pieces. I served it on silky mashed potato with broccoli on the side and, bizarrely, a Greek salad, because capsicums are good and cheap at the moment. 

The stew was a hit. The gradings are: (a) didn't like it; (b) liked it but don't make it again too soon; and (c) loved it and put it on high rotation. This was a (c).

Bruce Springsteen did not get leftovers that night. Foster carers are supposed to stick to the supplied dry food as apparently the dogs can become picky, but I like to at least treat the dog as if he were a ... part of the family.