Misty autumn rain is falling, pork goulash is simmering away in the slow cooker with a side of cheesy potatoes chillin' (literally) in the fridge, Kyle is braving the winds and rains in a heroic attempt to golf this afternoon, and a low-key weekend is beckoning me from the other side of 5 PM.
But the fact is, sometimes it's fun to complain. And because it's too early for wine (but is it really?), I give you a bit of afternoon whine...
Fact: I hate fat on meat. From the very depths of my soul, I loathe it.
You know that belief that home-cooking is best because
If you aren't a devoted carnivore, this sort of preparation just might send you running for the nearest health food store in search of tofu and kale. Many's the time I've spent an entire hour shredding slow cooked meat to rid it of the disgusting bits.
For whatever reason - and I say this to cover all my bases so I don't get a big fat (ha!) lecture next time I'm enjoying a slice or two - the "marbling" doesn't bother me at all in prosciutto. Observe:
But in any other meat - any of it - I would rather cut away part of the good stuff just to make sure I cut away all of the bad stuff. This tends to drive Kyle a little crazy, as he'll come out to witness my shredding and be all "there is plenty of good meat here" whilst looking at my discard pile.
Of course, after I've given him an endearing "crazed with rage" type look over said discards, I'll remind him that if he'd rather do it himself I'll certainly eat what he considers good meat with nary a complaint. This is a safe proposition, because it will probably never happen.
Before he gets all huffy himself, I must give him credit for regularly doing tons of laundry, vacuuming, and cleaning our car, which I completely trash. He really does quite a lot of work around the house, though I suspect he chooses some of these moments carefully - such as when my mom comes to visit, sees him painting our white trim or ripping up carpeting or any number of other impressive feats of home improvement, and leaves thinking he is Tim the Toolman Taylor. Or something.
Anyway, back to the kitchen... it's a safe proposition indeed, because I don't see him shredding three pounds of pork butt (tee-hee) or beef brisket in the very near future, and I'll never have to eat any of the fat that his less than fanatical eyes might overlook. Win-win. Or rather, compromise-compromise.
The fact of the matter is, I'm still angrily, sweatily, and laboriously shredding loads of meat (who wants to come eat at the Stevenson household now?) and he's still furtively eyeing the discard pile and thinking that perhaps he could have found a more frugal, pleasant spouse. Also, one who wouldn't cook quite as much delicious but fattening food. But such is life.
This pork goulash better be extremely delicious tonight. In any case, it will be fat free (well, not really, but you get the idea). If it doesn't turn out to be irresistable, at least I'll have my cheesy potatoes. And my wine.
I'm all about healthy living, you see.