I have a problem with meat.

Not in the eating part, but in the cooking part.

Firstly, I am paranoid about undercooking and overcooking.  Salmonella, E. coli, Tough, and Dry hover above me while I cook and make me a Nervous Nellie.

As well, I can’t remember a time when handling raw meat was acceptable to me.  It’s hard for me remove myself from the fact that I’m touching carcass.  I grab those little strings of fat from a chicken breast and look down at my own thighs.  I see the blood run from the Styrofoam tray of beef and I remember the cut on my finger from earlier in the day.  Looking for the grain while cutting causes a mind leap to muscle fibres flexing.

Do you get the picture?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m no vegetarian.  I just prefer to take an Ignorance is Bliss attitude and have my meat prepared for me.  For some reason, cooked fibres and fat don’t bother me.  They’re too delicious.  Thus, I’m largely a veg when eating at home.

Sometimes I suck it up and plough through.  Like for a date night.  My inner cavewoman feels like she must attempt cooking meat for the Y chromosome.

And as this Little Cavewoman is unschooled in the ways of the (edible) flesh, every recipe is a new recipe.  Because I totally rely on “Oh well, it’s a new recipe” as my fallback line.

This one was for lamb chops.  Simply marinated and quickly broiled.

Rosemary, lemon, and garlic brought it to the table as a warm, Mediterranean present on a cold night.  I served it with your basic Risotto Milanese and a green salad.

The bite of the garlic and lemon was soothed by the richness of the risotto, which was then only to be refreshed by the greens.

Nervous Nellie overcooked the lamb (Is it done?! Is it done?!) to medium-well, but its reception was good enough that no fallback line was necessary.

Appropriately, Little Cavewoman and a Y chromosome then took their tummies full of meat to the theatre to watch Mickey Rourke flex his muscles and stretch his fibres in “The Wrestler.”