There wasn’t much to speak of in the fridge — the tail end of a steak, a clutch of cherry tomatoes slumping into themselves, a carton of eggs with two survivors rattling in the corner — but I had butter, garlic, a nub of feta, and that particular kind of summer decisiveness that comes not from planning, but from hunger and heat and a desire to be done. I cubed the steak and browned it hard in my cherry red Dutch oven, watching it cast off its fat and leave behind a savory varnish on the enamel.
Then in went the sliced garlic and tomatoes, the pan deglazed with a few generous pats of salted butter.
