Tuesday, March 13, 2007

steak fritz night


i havent blogged in a few days because, frankly, we don't eat like kings every night. i know, hard to believe? right? sometimes we even do the occasional hamburger helper.

there, i've said it. Mothra would be appalled. we never ate that growing up. even my Grammy would be appalled.

however, not all nights are lost on Add-Meat-To-Packaged-Goods. some nights in the past two weeks have been mild, so we've been firing up the grill (enter chorus here of "fire it up! fire it up!". ehem). so yeah, mild weather = firing up of the ol' grill = goodtastysuperfoods. we defrosted the last pieces of meat from the tenderloin bought at the Super H market a while back, and decided it was time for a Steak Fritz night. I made the frites from the Les Halles cookbook, except i made them matchstick-sized because i like my frites better that way. damn, they were so good i couldnt stop snacking on them while waiting for the next batch to finish their second fry.


the boy made a reduced wine-shallot sauce to go along with; looks pretty good right? however when all was said and done, the sauce was inedible because we used bad wine. and by bad wine i mean wine that had turned. wine, turn? in my house? yeah... it was a leftover box wine from when we lived downtown... FIVE MONTHS AGO. boxed wine is great for camping. okay so i admit it. i drink boxed wine on occasion. hey, even daniel boulud has boxed wine now, so get off my back.

we didn't let that bother us though. shit happens while cooking, it's all about living and learning. down the garbage disposal it went. i did turn down the corners of my mouth at all those mouth-watering shallots. well, they looked mouthwatering. sigh.



what this picture doesnt show is right after it was taken, i gobbed big globs of ketchup and mustard all over the side of the plate. heh.

today you have learned too much about me. when i'm in a good mood, i tend to overshare things about myself. things like eating hamburger helper and drinking boxed wine. seriously, i can hear all my French ancestors turning in their graves; i'm sorry. i'll never spill my own beans again.

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