Flatiron with Chimichurri

This dish is amazing. It’s a definite crowd pleaser; the only people I can think of who would hate this dish are people who refuse to eat meat. It’s one of the few dishes that I ever have made that my MOTHER ranked a 10 out of 10 on first taste. I can’t tell you how well it reheats because it was completely inhaled by me, my folks, and my boyfriend. It was also kinda neat because it was the first dish I ever made where my guy actively helped out in the kitchen.

This domestic goddess masterpiece was made on a Sunday. But I couldn’t get out of my head something that happened Saturday night.

Warning: the following language may be offensive to some readers. Discretion is advised.

I was out and about with two of my oldest friends (both male) and my boyfriend. We’re all in our late 20s to early 30s; we all went to college, mostly to completely on our own dimes by the way. I’m the only one still apartment living–the rest have mortgages. We’re all debt free (with the possible exception of the mortgages). We are, on the surface, actual adults. And we were talking about how we were so over adulting. Talking about just taking time for ourselves and being selfish. Talking about going back to (grad) school, how if we could do it over again we’d have majored in something else. Things like that. Eventually, we got to the thought experiment of me being a “kept woman”. All three men rather quickly determined I never could be a kept woman.

Frankly, I was insulted.

I grew up in a generation where kids were told they could be anything they wanted to be. That nothing was impossible. Especially if you really wanted the something in question. So, if I put my mind to it and honestly decided (again, in a mind experiment) that I wanted to be a putzfrau, that I wanted to quit being an underpaid and under-appreciated career-woman and instead become an underpaid and under-appreciated housewife, why was the answer suddenly “no”?

I countered, mostly just for the sake of countering.

Argued that I’m great at cleaning, not too shabby at cooking (and enjoy doing both). That I’d have the time to go back to volunteering like I did pre-grad school. That I’d take hot yoga classes, start playing music again, and join a book club. And the idea of going to farmers markets to get the local cheeses to serve at the monthly wine club meetings sounded amazing. I could manage to stay completely happy in this life.

The responses?

Friend #1: “You realize book clubs don’t read the kind of esoteric shit that makes you tick? They read books you can get in the same aisle as deodorant and bananas that are written by people interviewed on Regis and Kelly. [Clearly, the last time this friend watched daytime TV was the same day he last was in a grocery store.] Plus, you need a lot more money before you can even join a wine club.”

Friend #2: “You’re too ambitious. You regularly publish papers with undergrads. I still don’t know how you pull that one off–remember what we were like then? You teach 300-level college courses. And you think a year or two from now you could say ‘Oh, I learned about this new eco-friendly cleaning product at Whole Foods’?! That doesn’t sound like a smooth transition. I don’t want to be your friend during that time.”

My boyfriend: “You’re too much of a man, and that’d piss off the other women. You’d want to spend the wine club meetings talking to the men about pairs trading and not to the women about Macy’s white sale–hell, you probably don’t even know what a white sale is because you absolutely hate shopping. And if a ‘gal pal’ asked you to get a smoothie after yoga class you’d think the calories alone would defeat the purpose of the class.”

So just like I don’t see them cashing in their chips to buy a small beach house where they’d blog and write poetry all day because they honestly love their hip(ster) location and yuppie dining and D.I.N.K. lifestyle; just like I don’t see them giving up their 6-figure job they constantly complain is boring to go to law or business school because in their current position work actually cuts into their day; just like I don’t see them doing anything beyond or living anywhere beyond their current because change just has never been worth their hassle, I guess they don’t see me living any other life. I suppose I’m just going to have to continue to be a hard-to-impress, high-standard-holding, stressed-out ball buster until or unless I perish in academia…in which case the setting for the plot may have to change but it seems unlikely that the character will.

But–and here, they’re most definitely right–my friends say I think too much. So, let’s just get to the recipe already!



  • Flatiron steaks (we had two. Each about one pound)
  • Garlic
  • Parsley
  • Cilantro
  • Oregano
  • Jalapeno
  • Salt
  • Pepper
  • Red wine vinegar
  • Olive oil


  1. Do all your sous-ing.

    The jalapeno is in the bowl. I did NOT use that much jalapeno
  2. Place all ingredients but the steak in a blender until smooth.
  3. Marinade the steak. I took giant Ziploc bags and placed the steak and sauce in said-bags.

  4. Grill the steaks. Since they’re so thin, it shouldn’t take more than 3-4 minutes per side.
  5. Do NOT let the meat rest. Slice and serve immediately.

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