At home it's me. And Otis. And Emerson.
Just three dudes, with little to no survival instincts past drinking liquid directly from its holding container.
Two pieces of chicken composed dinner Tuesday. Yesterday, I had a steak for dinner and applauded my forethought by cooking an extra which I ate for lunch today. After drinking two beers and eating an entire pork loin this evening, I decided the following:
You are a male living alone when the only thing you eat for a meal is meat.
No side dishes. No salad. Just a piece of meat with a cold, accompanying sauce.
I've never felt bad about fixing myself strictly meat for a meal. Truth be told, I like it. Tastes great. Less food to coordinate and prepare. Less cleanup.
The warm/fuzzy feeling must be one of private. When I was at the office today heating up my steak for lunch to accompany my coffee (yes, steak and coffee - I realize this is a habit of a very old man) I had a pinge of embarrassment for heating up just a piece of meat.
"What are you having?" the nosy lunch co-worker asked.
"Um. Steak." I timidly replied.
"Really? Just meat?" she prodded.
Why do you care, ran through my head, but instead, "Yeah, left-0vers." was the excuse. She had no idea that I was lying to her face.
The night before, I cooked with the pre-meditation of only eating meat for lunch.
"At least you'll get your iron." she offered.
"More than you know." I replied.
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