After my amazing vegetarian birthday lunch, we figured we might need a little cow on the premises, as an antidote.
I had first tasted the cut called Flatiron Steak a couple of years ago; it's billed as the second-most tender piece after filet mignon. But the cool thing is, it's way flat, and it reminds me of skirt steak or flap steak or... you know, those fun, chewy ones.
I read a story in the New York Times last week about butchers rummaging around in all that heretofore misused animal tissue, seeking out succulent new bits they can give a clever name to and put on the market. Beats throwing all that good muscle into the meat grinder.
So I wanted a flatiron steak. Cranky was stunned, but he's no fool. He dashed down to the farmers market and scored a nice specimen from Prather Ranch. We tossed about ideas for making an herb melty, or maybe a rub, possibly a marinade. But in the end we decided the meat should be treated respectfully, which meant a quick sear in the grill pan and a smear of butter.
Still. We had our hearts set on all those chives growing wantonly in the backyard.
Chive mashed potatoes. When you are growing a wild field of chives, you find you can be so much more generous with them than if you just had a few dinky sprigs in a pot. We went nuts.
Thus, the perspective. Because in truth, I really did eat more potatoes than meat. Even though the meat was dandy.