I’m continuing on with my crusade to make your Valentines Day one for the culinary books! I’m sure you’ve seen my Perfect Pan Seared Filet Mignon and my deliciously decadent Creamy Goat Cheese & Lobster Mashed Potatoes– but, what about veggies? We’ve all been to a steakhouse and then received a beautiful plate of steak, a baked potato and the saddest pile of wilted green beans or sweaty, droopy-looking carrots. It’s depressing. Let’s stop the madness and make a simple and delicious vegetable side dish that doesn’t make you feel like crying. There’s no crying in vegetables! That’s a famous movie quote, right? Something like that. Just imagine I’m Tom Hanks. […]
What happens when you put buttery roasted lobster into a cream sauce and then pour that cream sauce over a bed of goat cheese laced mashed potatoes? This. This is what happens. This, and also a lot of orgasmic eating noises. Loud ones. The kind that would make you uncomfortable if you accidentally video taped yourself eating. A lot of MMMMMMMMMMYYYYGAHHHHHWWWW and YES–YES YESSSSSSSSSSSS. It’s food porn, and it’s starting you. Whoops, we just made a lobster laced sex tape. Kinda like Paris Hilton that one time, but we’re wearing all of our clothes and moaning something fierce over goat cheese. […]
Psst! You guys, I convinced my husband Peter to write about steak. Two of my favorite things in one post. I’m the luckiest girl. Enjoy!
After many years of going to nice dinners with price-fixed menus, Gina and I made a valuable discovery. Every year on the fourteenth of February, our local grocery store had the most amazing sale: half price steak and half price lobster. Knowing we’d never really enjoyed those no-choice, crowded, over-priced meals out on the town (that, let’s be honest are nothing but mediocre) — a new tradition was born. No longer were we held to the rules of February’s cliche romantic fantasy, we made our own rules by inventing Steak & Lobster Day. And it’s the best day of the year. […]
Do you remember grade school fire drills? The alarm would sound. Momentary chaos ensued as the teacher tried to collect all thirty of us students — we were wiry, strong-willed things, with no intention of being collected or corralled or told what to do. Stern words would follow. Maybe a whistle would be blown. Eventually, we would all march out to the blacktop and line up in a line, facing the school, pretending to watch it burn down in horror. Yeah, we were dramatic. The moments after the drill were usually filled with a broken yet stern sort of disappointment from our teacher. We’d be reminded that the fire could have been real. We should take things more seriously. We’d be reminded that if we were ever to catch fire, God forbid, we were to STOP. DROP. AND ROLL. These words are very firmly implanted in my brain. For as much as I dislike being told what to do, and as much as I disliked the monotony of fire drills, I’m not opposed to keeping pertinent information in my brain that might save my life if I spontaneously burst into flame. I like having basic survival skills. […]