I grilled a steak tonight.
No, let me rephrase that: I grilled A STEAK tonight. It was the biggest single slab of beef I think I have ever seen. The five of us managed to eat HALF of this one steak at dinner.
Now, much to my husband's dismay, I am generally not one to buy steaks, but hey, when a massive cut of boneless meat is on sale for $1.98 a pound, I will buy it. This time, I actually bought two.
I am not much of a meat eater, though. I'm not a vegetarian by any means, although I can lean that way when left to my own devices. I just don't care for a big slab of red meat on my plate. I might never truly fit into this rural environment, I realize.
I was hungry by the time I set dinner on the table tonight, as the smells of the steak grilling and the Crash Hot Potatoes baking and the veggies steaming were really getting to me. I dug into my steak with gusto. As steaks go, it was a good one, and the first several bites tasted wonderful. But about halfway through, once my initial hunger pangs were satiated, I began to slow down. I just don't enjoy it for some reason. It was all I could do to finish my very reasonably-sized portion, an exercise in mind over matter.
The potatoes were wonderful again (the second time I've made them in a week), and I could have easily eaten a double portion of those. The veggies were good, too, perfectly tender without reaching the dreaded mushy stage. But I could have lived without the steak.
My husband, however, knew that the steak dinner meant love. It's no wonder that the seat of emotions, in so many cultures around the world, is thought of as the stomach, not the heart. There is truth to the old adage.