Eastside Road, April 23, 2014—POOR COOK HAS A BAD cold, and hasn't felt like cooking. This is very rare: since she's a cook, and not only a cook but a pastry cook, she's almost never under the weather. This can be attributed to her habits of cleanliness: her hands are cleaner than a raccoon's. Still, we were traveling last week, and even she runs into a virus from time to time.
And so I got to cook today. Not only cook, but market as well, and plan the menu. I defaulted to the dinner I so often prepared when I was alone up here on Eastside Road, twenty-five years ago, building the house on weekends or, occasionally, four or five days at a stretch.
Steak, potatoes, onions. This is a two-skillet meal, and of course I mean black cast-iron skillets. I slice three good-sized white potatoes fairly thin, tossed the slices in salt and olive oil, and put them to cook in the bigger skillet.
I'd salted the small round steak on all surfaces as soon as I got it home, loosely re-wrapping it and leaving it in the fridge until time to cook. Then I sliced it and tossed it into the smaller skillet, already hot, but dry. I seared each side of the meat, then reduced the heat.
I had three good-sized fresh onions, stalks attached. I rinsed them, trimmed their whiskers and the ends of their greens, then cut them in half lengthwise, and put them on top of the potatoes and the steak. I covered both pans and began neglecting everything.
In good time, with occasional flipping of the potatoes and control of heat, everything was done. The water left in the onions from their rinse was all the moisture the steak ever saw, but it stewed nicely. When I served things out I peppered the potatoes and steak strips a bit, and drizzled olive oil over the meat.
Green salad afterward. Delicious, if I do say so myself.