Monday, December 19, 2005

Tuna Steaks with Lemongrass and Chamomile Glaze

I went to work today, fully knowing that the staff pot luck was in the afternoon. Everybody was bringing something (me included—Jill’s leftover stuffed mushrooms from last night), and I knew that I was going to eat like a hog. Why, then, did I say that it would be a good idea to have tuna steaks for dinner?

I’ve never had tuna steak before, and neither has Jill. That’s the only explanation.

As of the moment, she’s out working the box office for the theater, and I’m sitting on the couch, still not hungry. I feel awful because she busted her ass before she had to go making this food for me—because I decided that I wanted it, anyway—and I’m not hungry. Not even a little bit. I am an asshole.

A long day of newspaper reading and websurfing ground to a halt when two-thirty rolled around and the whole of the office gathered in the training room for the potluck. I’d already eaten a cup of soup, a brownie, a buckeye and had a smoothie, but there it all was anyway—pasta salad, cheese balls, hot wings, Swedish meatballs, sloppy joe mix. There were buckeyes and brownies, cookies and cheese-filled chicken, too. And beer, which I couldn’t pass up at work.

The thirty (or so) of us ate and drank, passed out gifts to one another (I got a neat-ass miniature air hockey table that I can’t try out until I get some C batteries), and generally had a good time. I ate a lot. More than usual. Four plates of food or so, and I couldn’t bring myself to stop. My reasoning, both at the time and right now, is that it just tasted good, which makes me feel even worse. I knew what would be waiting for me when I got home, and I ignored it.

Jill was stirring the glaze when I walked in, bordering a freak-out because she had to leave for the theater. I took the fork, stirred the sauce, and finished cooking the steaks, my stomach still full.

The apartment filled up with the smell of the tuna and the cat laid on the kitchen floor, spreading out, splaying his toes and mewing the way he does. He wanted the steaks, steaming in the refrigerator, tempting him, asking for one thing only—to be eaten. That wouldn’t happen. Not tonight, anyway.

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