By Courtney Conover
The only time to eat diet food is while you're waiting for the steak to cook.
~Julia Child
The craving was intense, undeniable, and unyielding. There was no doubt about it: Baby wanted steak. "What do you feel like for dinner?" my husband Scott had asked as he opened the fridge. Rubbing my five-and-a-half months pregnant belly, I stood on my tiptoes and peered around Scott's arm to take a look.
There wasn't much to work with. Granted, Scott is a certified chef, but not even MacGyver and Rachel Ray could join forces to make do with a half-full carton of almond milk, a sack of black seedless grapes, a few sticks of unsalted butter, and a pack of "meatless" hot dogs. A trip to the market was definitely in order, and for Scott that was anything but a chore.
And I was about to place the proverbial cherry on top.
"I want — no, need — a steak," I replied, albeit bashfully, raising a hand to my mouth to ensure that I wasn't salivating at the mere thought of a succulent piece of red meat.
Scott turned around so fast that I thought for a second he might have suffered whiplash. His expression seemed to say, "Finally! Please tell me you're serious!"
Much to his delight, I repeated, "I. Want. Steak."
You see, for nearly five years I had been a vegetarian, and while my eating habits made me feel amazing, being married to a granola-munching wife was, quite understandably, a less than ideal living situation for a meat-loving chef. Being the dutiful husband he is, however, he has whipped up a myriad of delectable meat-free creations during the course of our four years of marriage — vegetable lasagna, homemade French fries with a hint of sea salt, and ratatouille, to name a few. I was most appreciative — this was coming from a man who would much prefer to make chicken cordon bleu for two, after all.
But now that I was pregnant, my vegetarianism was on hiatus. Roasted chicken, turkey with gravy, and the occasional cheeseburger were back on the menu.
At last, Scott was in his glory. Especially tonight.
"I'm making Steak Oscar," Scott announced.
"Steak what?"
"You'll like it," he said. "You'll see."
Forty-five minutes later, Scott returned from the market, threw on his chef coat, and went to work. Motivated by equal parts curiosity and hunger, I held court at the island in our kitchen as Scott organized his mise en place: an assortment of pots and pans, a whisk, a pair of stainless steel tongs, and his knife kit. (No measuring cups were in sight. "Chefs don't need them, we go by appearance and taste," Scott always says.) And then there were the raw ingredients: three eight-ounce beef tenderloin steaks, a bunch of fresh asparagus spears and lemons, and a container of lump crabmeat.
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"You're in the way," Scott quipped. "Call Mom and invite her over for dinner, then have a seat in the living room. Put your feet up."
He didn't have to tell me twice.
Nearly an hour later, there was no need for Scott to beckon my mother and me to the table; the mouthwatering aroma wafting through the house had already done the trick. We settled in at the table and what Scott placed before us nearly knocked us out of our chairs. In the center of my stark white plate sat a pyramid comprised of — from the bottom — a cloud of garlic-mashed potatoes, a perfectly cut round piece of steak, a hearty scoop of crabmeat, crisscrossed asparagus spears, and a stream of hollandaise sauce (sans raw egg, of course).
When Scott joined us at the table with his plate, I said grace and paused before I dug in. I had to remind myself to eat slowly and actually taste this masterpiece because it would have been all too easy to inhale it in three bites. What ensued for the next few minutes was a series of "Oooohs" and "Mmmmms" followed by bouts of chewing in silence. My craving had been sated.
With our plates clean and our stomachs pleasantly packed, we eased back from the table and exchanged looks of glee.
"Have you had enough?" Scott asked.
"Yes," my mom answered. "I'm stuffed."
"Me too," Scott added.
Then all eyes fell on me.
"Tangerines," I said. "Baby wants citrus."
And back to the market Scott went.
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