I still think about that ruined steak from years ago. But now, every time I pull a rib eye from the bath, smell the butter sizzle, and cut into that flawless pink meat, I feel like I’ve won a small war against my own kitchen stupidity.
So go ahead. Set the temp at 137°F. Let physics do the work. Then sear like you’re angry. Your taste buds—and any potential dates—will thank you.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a steak calling my name. And this time, there’s no pizza on the menu.
