Beef

After failing to learn to use even a child's gun, I opted for a different type of bodyguard: an extremely large black dog.   His companionship made the move back to Manhattan slightly more challenging.*  And then, just when we had settled in, I found myself needing to drive him back up to [crappy town] to receive specialized veterinary care at the hospital.

His allergies had been worsened by his time on the tough NYC streets, and the recommendation was a home-cooked diet of green beans, basmati rice, and ground sirloin.  I had entered the world of extreme pet ownership.  That left me in the position of having to purchase more than four pounds of ground sirloin at one of the grocers on the UWS every week.  

Even in New York where the crazy can seem commonplace, it is difficult to approach the meat counter and make such a request without some commentary from either the butcher, fellow customers, or both.  Many times people would ask me if I was throwing a party.  Depending on my mood I would respond with differing levels of enthusiasm:

"Yes!  It is going to be GREAT!"
"Just a small barbecue with friends."
"[silence]" 

Other times they would directly ask what the gigantic block of beef was for, which also called for varying responses depending on the day:

"[silence]"
"We REALLY like lasagna"
"We have eight kids" 
"I'm going for the meatloaf world record" 
"It is for my dog" 

The truth would generally elicit some sort of shocked reaction, laughter, and/or a string of follow-on questions.  Eventually, at the butcher counters of both Fairway and Citarella, I became known as that lady.

And then there was cooking it.   

I absolutely adore eating beef.  Bring on the carpaccio and tartare.  Kindly douse my rare steak with butter, bearnaise, or peppercorn sauce.  Delight me with a simple burger, grilled or cooked in the pan.  Or maybe don't, because after cooking pounds and pounds of beef every week for months on end, one no longer finds the smell of beef that appealing.  For years.

Out of love for a dog, I found myself in the distressing position of having sacrificed my principles:  I had cooked more for him than I had ever cooked for any other man, subjected myself to additional time upstate, been forced to abandon a once-loved food, and ruined my reputation in the neighborhood.  I would still do all of that again if it would bring him back.

 

* Most NYC apartments don't welcome dogs of his size, nor do taxis.  We still owned a house upstate, thus it was necessary to have a car in the city just to transport "our boy" back and forth.  He quickly became known as "the million dollar dog," but also, thanks to the bright purple and green boots that he would wear to protect his sensitive paws on walks, he became a feature in many a Central Park tourist photo