While eating a buttered fatty steak I realized how different my sawing technique was compared to my pre-Keto days. Before, on the rare occasion when I would allow myself a steak, I’d exclude the fat, slicing around it with the care and worry of someone taking the queen’s temperature. Only the smallest remnant would be tolerated on a bite, not mention the countless grams of wasted meat caught up in the carnage, innocent bystanders to advice gone wrong.
Fat? Ew, gross! … That stuff’ll kill you! … Avoid! Avoid! Avoid! … I was taught. So I did. What a waste.
Happy to report those days are gone. Long gone. This was my fourth steak of the week. I noticed I was shredding it with confident abandon, like a Ninja Turtle on a date, taking an instinctive delight in tearing it apart, not merely unconcerned about the presence of fat but welcoming of it. Grateful. Unburdened. If there were any care, it was to make sure as many pieces as possible wore a cap of fat. Beyond that, it was the numb comfort of pure old physics – the visceral joy of fork > steak > knife > mouth.
Separate. Eat. Groan. Repeat.
Not just from a flavor and health perspective, eating steak Keto-style feels… DNA-approved, if that makes any sense?
What a difference some knowledge makes.
