Seven ounces of filet mignon from Central Market. Grilled to perfection by the new guy’s eldest son, who called me out to the grill to ask if/how I had seasoned it. Unseasoned, straight from the market. Did I want him to dip it in the Asian marinade. *Sniff*. Eww, no I did not. Did I want any rubs on it? No, I just wanted dead cow that tasted like dead cow. Went back into the house, where I went through discussion v1.1 with Squishy. No pepper. A little season salt is OK.
I like my dead cow significantly less dead than does the new guy. Just a skosh more medium than medium rare. I want it crispy on the outside, tender on the inside, not all tarted up. It is not often that I want a steak, maybe a couple of times a year. It has been maybe four years since I bought a steak to cook, and the first time I have paid per pound what a good skein of sock yarn costs.
This one was worth every penny I paid for it. [And I am putting Kobe beef on the bucket list.]
I have a slice of chocolate meringue pie in the fridge. Ditto some of his from-scratch potato salad. Both of them excellent. Cannot. Wait. For. Lunch.
And over the course of this lovely long weekend, I have knitted up 45% of Lark’s birthday present.