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.
- Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!