I recently braised two turkey drumsticks and a few carrots in a dutch oven. The liquid became the greatest sauce I have ever made.
Once the turkey had cooked to the desired consistency (not quite falling off the bone -- call it walking the tightrope of the bone), I reduced the liquid (old white wine, older Herbes de Provence, water, salt, pepper) and added just a bit of butter. The resulting sauce was so good that it falls into the category of so good there must be a name for it in French.
The herbs (or "herbes") and the sugar in the carrots and wine made for a sweet and succulent complement to the turkey. And here's a compliment to the turkey: your meat was very tasty.
But the best part about the best sauce I've ever made was the fuel; the dutch oven started on the range in the kitchen but ended up nestled in the glowing coals of the fire pit outside. The kids who live downstairs (with their parents) asked me to make a fire for them, but they quickly lost interest once their marshmallows were toasted.
I was left with a heap of glowing coals that, once I remembered the pot back in the kitchen, looked like money in the bank. In fact there was a (slight) financial benefit to using the coals, which were made from gathered wood, over the gas, which I -- and the planet, meaning you -- pay for in more ways than one.
I carried the dutch oven downstairs and left it on the coals, which, like making tea from a stone, was something I have always wanted to do. When I could no longer discern a glow down at the pit, I figured it was done. It was.
It seems all of my dreams end in fire and all of the things I think are French involve poultry and reductions.