My ears pricked up this morning when Helen announced she was going to buy a tenderloin and cook it for supper. "Ah, the opulence, sheer luxury." My brain conversed with itself.
Helen came home and continued to cook the shit out of the tenderloin. My hopes were dashed when I looked in the oven to find a grey, sickly looking piece of meat. I dared not cut into it to find more of said. I kept praying she would keep it kind of rare. Not in the South my dear friends. We fry and cook EVERYTHING al dente.
Mom's back to walking everyday.
"You can go with me and Maggie," I told her.
"I only walk a few hundred feet at a time," mom replied.
I smiled when I thought of the disappointment on Maggie's face when we would turn around at the end of the street. "Come on, there is gotta be more than this?" Maggie would say if she could talk.
5 comments:
If you ever have a chance to stop at a Petro Truck Stop and have the chicken fried chicken and mashed tators, it's the BEST!
You made me laugh out loud with the description of cooking in the South. It's so true. I remember the first time I had meat that wasn't grey or a perfectly cooked asparagus. When I was growing up, all of our vegetables were cooked to the consistency of wet kleenex.
Sorry you were so disappointed.
I don't eat much meat, but when I do it like it med/rare!
Ugh. Come up to Chicago, and treat yourself to a mouthwatering medium-rare porterhouse.
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