The Pioneer Woman by Ree Drummond

the one before, and by Day Ten of our new relationship, I was madly, ridiculously, head-spinningly in love, even as the date I’d planned to leave for Chicago was fast approaching.
    Chicago had been months in the making, and suddenly I found myself avoiding the subject like the plague. Had I lost my mind? Taken leave of my senses? Whenever I allowed myself to enter into the realm of thinking about it, I felt a terrible, uncomfortable tug. I felt guilty, like I was playing hooky or cheating on myself. Suddenly, a cowboy comes along and I can think of nothing but him. I needed only to hear his voice on the other end of the line, saying good morning or saying good night or teasing me for sleeping past six and chuckling that chuckle that made everything go weak…and Chicago—the entire state of Illinois, for that matter—would simply flitter out of my mind, along with any other lucid thought I ever tried to have in his presence. I was doomed.
    Around town I’d field the occasional question about the status of my migration. And I’d always give the same answer: Yep, I’m headed there ina couple of weeks . I’m just tying up some loose ends. What I didn’t tell them was that the loose ends were rapidly, nightly, winding their way around my waist and my shoulders and my heart. Logically I knew I couldn’t possibly allow this new man to derail me from where I really wanted to go in life. But it would take a little more time for me to work up the gumption to put the brakes on our ever-increasing momentum. I simply wasn’t finished kissing him yet.
    After a few more dates in my town, Marlboro Man invited me, once again, to his house on the ranch. Taking into account how much he’d loved the first meal I’d fixed for him, I confidently offered, “I’ll make you dinner again!” Since I’d gone the seafood route before, I decided to honor his ranching heritage by preparing a beef dish. After scouring my formerly vegetarian brain for any beef dishes I remembered eating over the previous twenty-five years, I finally thought of my mom’s Marinated Flank Steak, which had remained in my culinary memory even through all the tofu and seaweed I’d consumed in California.
    To make it, you marinate a flank steak in a mixture of soy sauce, sesame oil, minced garlic, fresh ginger, and red wine for twenty-four hours, then grill it quickly to sear the outside. The flavor—with its decidedly Asian edge—is totally out of this world; combined with the tenderness of the rare flank steak, it’s a real feast for the palate. To accompany the flank steak, I decided to prepare Tagliarini Quattro Formaggi—my favorite pasta dish from Intermezzo in West Hollywood. Made with angel hair pasta and a delectable mix of Parmesan, Romano, Fontina, and goat cheese, it had been my drug of choice in the L.A. years.
    I bought all the ingredients and headed to Marlboro Man’s house, choosing to ignore the fact that Marinated Flank Steak actually needs to marinate. Plus, I didn’t know how to operate a grill—Los Angeles County apartment buildings had ordinances against them—so I decided to cook it under the broiler. Having not been a meat eater for years and years, I’d forgotten about the vital importance of not overcooking steak; I just assumedsteak was like chicken and simply needed all the pink cooked out of it. I broiled the beautiful, flavorful flank steak to a fine leather.
    With all my focus on destroying the main course, I wound up overcooking the angel hair noodles by a good five minutes, so when I stirred in all the cheeses I’d so carefully grated by hand, my Tagliarini Quattro Formaggi resembled a soupy pan of watery cheese grits. How bad could it possibly be? I asked myself as I poured it into garlic-rubbed bowls just like they did at Intermezzo. I figured Marlboro Man wouldn’t notice. I watched as he dutifully ate my dinner, unaware that,