I made meatloaf, but I made it at 9pm after I came home from yoga. I’d been fantasizing about a juicy slice of meatloaf through the whole class–I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to be thinking about meat during yoga. After I was done grocery shopping, I realized I should probably look at a recipe. I’d done this before, so I assumed I could just wing it. Isn’t that the idea with real cooks, they can just throw stuff together. According to the recipe I found online, you have to cook meatloaf for an hour.
I wasn’t willing to accept this, so I checked on the sleeping beast every two minutes. After thirty minutes, the meat in the center wasn’t pink anymore. Sweet. I decided to go ahead and eat, even though the bacon I’d put on top was still a little pale.
I ate raw bacon. It wasn’t even cooked enough to become rubbery. This bacon sacrifice wasn’t even worth it, because I’d bought lean beef. You need that extra fat, turns out, to keep the meat juicy. The actual loaf of meat was dry and chunky, but flavorful. However, I was too busy trying not to think about the bacon to enjoy any remnant flavors. I didn’t get physically sick, but psychologically, the bacon took its toll. Every stomach twinge was the swine flu, even though, apparently, the swine flu has nothing to do with pigs.
What’s worse is the next day I did the same thing. I microwaved the meatloaf, assuming the bacon would become more cooked in the microwave. It did not, and now I’d dried the meatloaf to a cardboard consistency. I ate it, because I had cooked it. I had made that meatloaf and bacon, and I wouldn’t discourage my fledgling adult inclinations by not eating it.
I told a co-worker about my meaty efforts, and she said, “It’s a process.” She said I should try bbq-ing, but when I said, “Yeah, I’ll get some lighter fluid and just fire that baby up,” she seemed worried.
