BH&G Cooking for Two: Steak Night–Indoors

This dinner, from Better Homes & Gardens Cooking for Two, is one that I made a long time ago. Like months and months and months ago and never had anything much to say about it.

And now—–well, I still don’t have anything to say about it.

Holy crap, it is terribly difficult for me to muster enthusiasm over Steak Night–Indoors, or anything else for that matter. But I’ve been putzing around with this same post for over 2 weeks now, so it’s best to just put it up and be done with it. It’s not good. It’s not cohesive. It just is.

So in lieu of having any food for thought, I thought I’d regale you with more tales of woe from my romantic escapades (or lack thereof).

I recently realized (and a twenty-something girl even told me) that I am officially starring in my own extremely low-rent version of Sex and the City: one in which everyone is fatter, poorer, nowhere near as well-dressed, and with a 1000 times more shootings, hookers, and trash. So, needless to say, it’s a little bit sad.

The Fabulous Miss Carrie Bradshaw

The Fabulous Miss Carrie Bradshaw in designer clothes.

The Fabulous Me. At least I put on pants.

So in the not-so-distant past I was out with some folks and the topic of “friends with benefits came up”. My friend Oliver (who may be the only single guy I know over 30 who is unattached and who I interact with in any sort of regularity–I just know him from here and there–and sometimes if he’s there, and I’m there, then we end up being there together) announced that we had been there, done that, and then bragged that he and I are still able to hang out in mixed company completely comfortably because we are some sort of evolved species.

Are we? Are we somehow superior in that we are able to separate the emotional from the physical? Is this some magic power that we both possess?

Before I continue, let me throw some Steak Night–Indoors action at ya:

The Mashed Potato Marvel is magic

I am not Carrie Bradshaw, but since I am the protagonist of this blog, single, in my 30s, and armed with a laptop, I’m gonna bring the pain right now:

 I couldn’t help but wonder…is there such a thing as no strings attached?

What a delicious little dinner!

Yes and no. I looked back on my past experiences and those of my friends. It seemed that inevitably one party gets too emotionally invested, which results in unreasonable expectations. I’ve seen it happen. And aren’t there a lot of romantic comedies about this? Do they always end up coupled? But more often than not there is always collateral damage–in varying degrees. And I don’t think that it’s something that you can plan–like Jerry and Elaine on Seinfeld–with the sleepovers optional deal. You’re gonna mess with the friendship formula.

But in this situation? Not so much. We are friends but not friends. I’m not calling him up to have a chat about my feelings, ya know?  I like Oliver well enough but I don’t like him, like him. Actually, now that I think about it, sometimes I do wonder if I even do like him as a person–but that’s neither here nor there because he’s fun, spontaneous, witty, and not bad to look at.  Mr. Man could charm the pants off of anyone. I firmly believe that.

I feel about Oliver the way that social smokers think about cigarettes: only when drinking! He feels about me the way one thinks of a Hot Pocket: I’m hungry. Oh, cool, there’s a Hot Pocket in the freezer!

Yep. I just compared myself to a Hot Pocket. C’mon, we’ve all been the Hot Pocket. Oh, shit–I could so go for a frozen burrito right now!

So are we evolved? Are we pretty little unique snowflakes? Not in the least. Honestly, Oliver is a little bit of a sociopath. I’m terribly jaded and apathetic. AP. A. THET. IC. That’s the main thing, really. And maybe I don’t have a lot of that lady/sex/love bonding hormone that you’re supposed to have. Just another reason why I should not give birth. I’d have a baby and be all, “meh.”

But I do make a nice dinner:

The parsley-butter sauce is a definite keeper! Yum.

This really was a lovely dinner. I just broiled the steak. And the parsley butter and the mashed potato marvel were yummy.

But ah, the apathy! I don’t know what it is with me lately. But it may be contagious. Check out the cat:

Brian says, “look at all the fucks I give!”

And that pretty much sums it up.

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14 Responses to BH&G Cooking for Two: Steak Night–Indoors

  1. Jill says:

    “Jaded and apathetic” would make a great band name.

  2. Erica says:

    Yeah, generally anybody who goes on about how evolved and superior they are tend to be sociopaths 😀

    Mmmmm, mashed potatoes!

  3. Carrie Bradshaw, Elvis photo bombs, steak, and the intricacies of the Social Smoking/Hot Pocket phenomenon … there is nothing not to love in this post 😉

  4. missrose10 says:

    I would love to tell you I went through my Carrie faze once and it ended up happily ever after so, I will been there done that got the guy blah blah blah. This made me laugh so hard I scared the cats. Just blam it on the weather and go shopping for something new to you. Oh, and I will never look at hot pockets the same again.

  5. spencer says:

    does Oliver read your blog?;)

    • Yinzerella says:

      No. Do you think he’d be offended? LOL.
      I believe that aside from Dearly Departed Cleve, none of the gentlemen (and I use that term loosely) mentioned know about the blog–let alone read it.

  6. dillon says:

    Hey, for the record, your dear friend in her mid-thirties agreed with the Sex & the City analogy, has met the sociopath in question, and once, in our youth drove the getaway car when we fished a wanna-be Timothy Leary’s house, and I think you are fabulous just the way you are. If you want a relationship, you will have one… If you don’t… and you don’t have to answer to anyone. Except maybe the cat. And you sure can cook…
    So I give it a big ‘ol “Atta Girl”!

    • Yinzerella says:

      Oh, you. Hey, I ain’t complaining. I wish that someone would piss us off enough that we’d go fish again–but alas, we are ladies, and would never do something so boorish.
      And you’re right–I am pretty fucking fabulous.

  7. “Look at all the fucks I give” is my new motto! Beware, the boys DO find the blog… I got a phone call of rage from an ex demanding to know what a chaw-bacon was – one of the thinly disguised nicknames I’d given him. Somehow he’d found it and was in a rage. It was about three years since we’d split but I calmed him down, cooked him dinner and got him into bed. Time, the great healer….

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