Tonight I went to an educational dinner about lymphoma and some new-ish treatment strategies with monoclonal antibodies. It's all very exciting stuff, if you're into CD-20s and killing cancer.
The meeting was held at a super nice and ritzy restaurant. The kind of place where the waiter scrapes the bread crumbs for you between courses. The Hater, self-touted cooked-meat-judge, says they have the best steaks in town. I have to agree.
I ordered steak, seeing as how ordering anything else at this place would be an abomination. Medium-well. (Don't make faces... I don't do pink.) At heart I'm a well-done-meat-eater, but occasionally I venture out of the box.
The steak they brought out to me was not medium-well. It was very medium. Very medium. Pink, Pink, Pink. I didn't want to interrupt the speaker to announce to the waitstaff that my plate just blinked at me, so I took this as an opportunity to venture further outside my comfort zone. That, and the people around me were diving into their pink meat... and I figured that if they'd lived this long eating pink meat, I might make it through the meal, too.
I had no problem saving half of my plate for The Hater. He likes it when I go to these fancy meetings because he gets the leftovers. And he was very proud that I ate Pink. I told him about how it didn't slice smoothly; it really needed a saw, not a steak knife. He says it was the tendons that caused those problems, which is really too much information.
He says he is very proud of me, but I can assure you that next time I'm given the option, I'll be leaning more towards my comfort zone. I don't care for meat that moos at me.
The Things We Bring Home:
3 days ago