Tuesday, August 9, 2011

The Problem with Undercooked Meat

I've got a beef and it's rare.
First, let me give you a little tour through my meat temperature belief system:

Chicken:  cook the hell out of it (at least 180 degrees) or you will get worms and become salmonella-ridden.
Beef (ground):  "      "          "         "           "         "          "         "      "  mad cow/E-coli-ridden.
Beef (steak):  if you are an adult, dealers choice (in my case, just walk it through a warm kitchen).  If you are a child, please see Beef (ground) instructions.
Pork:  I don't care that trichinosis has been mostly abolished in the United States and that the so-called "Pork  Council" says you can have it medium rare.  I'm not going to chance a parasitic infection and I'm sure as hell not going to let my kid chance it.  Cook it til it's dust!
Venison/Elk/Big Game:  Gross. If you eat it, you deserve worms.

Now that we've got that out of the way, tonight's adventure began when Mr. B and I decided that we were going to eat dinner at the table together like a normal family.  It always sounds like a swell idea at the time, but I always forget about the ridicule.  Oh, the ridicule...

Tonight's menu was BBQ pork tenderloin, roasted red potatoes & asparagus.  A simple enough meal, but also fraught with peril.  Mr. B always undercooks the pork.  Always.  He drank the Pork Council Kool-Aid and has become very willy-nilly regarding temperature.  Pull it at 155?  Are you serious????

When it came time to sit at the table, I quickly piled the well-done end pieces of the tenderloin onto our kid's plate before Mr. B had a chance to notice.  I felt victorious knowing that once again, my vigilance would pay off and prevent my only child from contracting some terrible pork-borne sickness.  Unfortunately once Mr. B sat down, he looked at Nick's plate, made a snide comment about chewing on erasers, removed the end pieces and replaced them with (gulp) PINK CENTER PIECES!!!  To my horror, my son gobbled it down in utter contempt of my loud protests and dire warnings of explosive diarrhea.

The remainder of our family meal consisted of Mr. B and my little man snickering and trading comments like, "Oh no, death by FLAVOR!"

Really just so uncalled for.

I believe that the following clip from Pulp Fiction sums up my issue with pork perfectly (although keep in mind  this is a Tarantino film, so.. BEWARE!  POTTY WORDS AHEAD!!!).