I understand that being friends with me has its price.
For example, last week my former neighbor Amy invited me over to watch When Harry Met Sally, which I was more than willing to do. However, I told her that I wanted to make her dinner and I wanted to fix something that the Pioneer Woman would be proud of. Hopefully.
Thankfully, she was down, so I prepared to make Rib-Eye Steak with Whiskey Cream Sauce, which is all well and good, that is, until I purchased the rib-eye steaks from the grocery store, finding out that for two it was nearly thirty bucks. While that might seem like nothing to you, as an amateur chef that tries to keep his creations to around fifteen to twenty dollars for the whole meal, it knocked the bloodied wind right out of me.
But, with my mouth already open and this edible promise loudly seeping out, I purchased them, along with a small sample bottle of Jack Daniel’s from an area liquor store; thankfully, I already had everything else, like onions, spices, and so on.
Arriving at her place, as she made a side of baked potatoes, I got started on the rib-eyes. Sautéing the onion bits in a large stick of butter, once they turned moderately brown I poured in a bit of the name-brand whiskey, as well as salt, pepper, and some Mexican table cream—I couldn’t find the so-called “light cream” that Ree wanted—allowing the burning-down booze to burn my nostrils and throat.
As that concoction simmered on a very low heat, in another pan I cooked the rib-eyes using, once again, a stick of butter, per the Pioneer Woman’s heart-clogging rules. Salt and peppering both sides, while Amy said that I made it a little too bloody, she thought that, when combined, it all looked so tempting. And, you know, this time, it really did.
We parked ourselves in front of the television, using her ottoman as a makeshift table of sorts; I bit into the rib-eye, as the mixture of whiskey and onions came blissfully together to bring out the flavor of the meat even deeper than I could have hoped. I felt that this was the first time since I started this endeavor that I actually succeeded.
Amy even thought so, as I looked over at her plate and all that was left were the cuts of fat that graced the rib-eye; of course, I ate them off of her plate. For once, I feel like I cooked it all right from this cursed cookbook and, even better, I actually had a witness this time.