Adventures in freakdom.
I dropped the lit match into the pyramid of charcoal before it burned my finger. The flame licked greedily at the fluid-laced pile, catching hold in seconds. In seconds, it blazed. Though the day wasn’t cold, the radiant heat from the grill felt nice.
I was out behind my office, getting ready to grill a monster steak. Ever since I got a tiny $15 steak at Outback last Friday when we took the spud out for her birthday, I’ve had a hankering for a nice thick piece of meat. A man’s steak. Which is completely different from mansteak. I have no desire to put one of those in my body.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s just not for me.
I watched the flames dance, mesmerized. There’s just something compelling about fire, isn’t there? Especially when the wind blows, whipping it around, shredding off small pieces of blaze that hang in the air for an instant before they roll up and vanish. Maybe it’s my caveman genes that make me like fire. Perhaps even the same gene that craves large pieces of bloody seared flesh.
A car pulled up behind me, and I turned to look. It was Eddie, a co-worker, returning from a customer’s office. My co-conspirator in the day’s lunch plans; this was his grill I stood before. He climbed out of his car, grinning.
“Now that’s a fire,” I said.
“I told you it was enough charcoal,” he replied. Earlier, we’d had a long discussion over whether the Match Light I brought would be enough. Eddie had charcoal and fluid in his car, but didn’t think we’d need it.
Perhaps I like the big fires just a little too much.
“I guess you were right,” I agreed.
We shot the shit for a few minutes while the charcoal burned, discussing the merits of various cuts of meat, marinades, charcoals, and how damn good a lightly cooked steak is. Guy stuff. You womenfolk won’t understand.
“What time did Stan say he’d be here?” I asked, when conversation lulled a bit.
Stan, a mutual friend, had been at our office earlier, consulting with me on a piece of the project we both work on. At one point Eddie came over to my office to say hello, and invited Stan for lunch since Eddie had brought two ribeyes and was only planning to eat one. Two tiny ribeyes, I might add. Tiny next to the two-pound monstrosity I brought, anyway.
“Eleven.”
“You should probably call him and ask him how he wants his steak cooked.”
“Well-done,” Eddie said.
I made a face. “Did you already ask him?”
“No, but he’ll want it well-done.”
I took a moment to wax poetic on the nastiness of well-done steaks, and what a waste of perfectly good meat they are.
“Besides,” I said, “men don’t eat well-done steaks; everyone knows that. That’s what women do. Did you go out to eat steaks with him or something?”
He shook his head. “We went out for Mexican food once, but that’s it.”
“So what makes you think he’s going to want his steak well-done?”
“He’s from Limestone County,” he said, with a perfectly straight face and absolute certainty.
In my head, Tim Allen grunted, a long one that raised questioningly at the end. I cackled.
“What the fuck does being from Limestone County have to do with anything?” I asked, when I’d caught my breath.
“People from rural areas usually get their steaks well-done.” Again he spoke with the total sureness that he was right.
“Get the fuck out of here! What does being from a rural area have to do with well-done steaks? You’re from a place called Iuka, for God’s sake, and you’re going to have yours just as rare as I’m going to have mine.”
“Because I moved to the city and tried it different ways. Rural people who are still rural don’t. I was a waiter at a steak place for six years, remember? Families in rural areas are usually big, and everything gets cooked one way, and that’s well-done.”
He shared several stories with me about people he’d served in his waiting days.
“But Stan’s a guy,” I said. “Guys don’t eat steaks well-done.” I was still having trouble believing a man would eat a well-done steak. Gray meat. Damn.
“Bet you a quarter he’ll want it well-done.”
Eddie and I keep a stack of quarters in our offices, for betting. Usually we bet on golf putts in his office, but we’re prone to bet on anything if the mood hits us. They’re just quarters, after all.
“You’re on,” I said. “If he picks rare or medium-rare, I win. Medium-well or well-done and you win. Medium is neutral ground, no winner.”
We shook, and went inside to call Stan on a speakerphone.
“Hey Stan, it’s Eddie,” Eddie said when Stan picked up.
“What’s up?”
“How you want your steak cooked?”
We both leaned forward in anticipation.
“Cook it long,” Stan said.
I barked out a peal of laughter before I could stop myself.
“You want it well-done?” Eddie asked.
“Very,” Stan replied.
I went to my office and got Eddie his quarter. As I did, I reflected on how wrong I was on the men-and-rare-steaks thing. I thought back to Wednesday afternoon, and how I went for a hike on Rainbow Mountain. Thought about how it was that I never see anyone up there until the day I’m wearing a pink shirt and bright yellow shoes, skipping down the trail like a little girl.
Perhaps I’m not the expert on manly things I thought I was.
If you want to get notified whenever Fred writes a journal entry, this link will do the trick.
| S | M | T | W | T | F | S |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| « Oct | Dec » | |||||
| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | ||
| 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 |
| 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 |
| 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 |
| 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | |||
My husband (a “man”) insists on having his steaks well-done. Because, heaven forbid, it might contain e-coli or some such bug. I like mine medium and have even been known to eat raw hamburger.
You da man, Fred!
Ugghh …. a well-done steak?! It is a waste of good meat. I go for a medium rare to medium steak …. but I feel like a wimp around my older brother. He orders his “ultra-rare”, which basically means browning the outside while the inside is still half cool. Yuck on that too!
Oh Fred, I forgot something. You ought to use one of those charcoal chimney starter things. They’re inexpensive. You don’t get the charcoal lighter flavor and it is a bit quicker getting a set of coals going. Lowes and places like that sell them. http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00004U9VV/103-4351963-8252631?v=glance&n=286168&v=glance
Make mine rare - just this side of raw is about right. And I am definitely not a man’s man.
this “womanfolk” says “slap it until it stops mooing and then out it on my plate!”
Mmmmm nothing like a good rare, bloody steak. So pink in the middle it moos.
So there you have it, Fred! Evidently you’ve just been proven WAY wrong in your theory about women and men and their innermost meat-eating desires. I was raised on rare to medium rare steak grilled by the king of ALL steak grillers–my dad! NO one grills a steak like my dad! And it all starts in the selection of the cut at the butcher anyhow.If you can’t get that right, you’re eff’d.
Exactly. I have extended family members who are butchers and it has come in handy more than once!
It kills me though to watch said butcher grill his steak for a full =thirty= minutes. Mine? twelve to fifteen minutes is plenty
Well I must admit, I like my steak well-done. Something about eating pink meat just turns my stomach. My husband likes his medium well. I used to actually eat my steak with ketchup. My husband finally cured me of that. That man can cook a steak. Mine always end up chewy and have no flavor.
I’m definitely a girly-girl, and depending on the restaurant, I like my steak rare or medium rare. I’ve even been known to eat carpaccio.
my husband orders his rare and i order mine medium. but somehow mine is always pinker than his and we have to swap. i guess all the waiters in mississippi smoke crack or something.
Last time I checked, I was a girl, & if I happen to order steak, I tell them, “just throw it on the coals.” If I see a dot of pink, it goes back. Pink meat. *shudders*
My Husband likes his WELL WELL done and I like mine passed thru a warm room on the way to the table. Go figure!
I loooooove carpaccio, Fitchypoo! Although I have to say that I had it by accident the first time. My friend asked if I wanted to taste it and I didn’t know it was actually RAW MEAT. Well, it’s delicious! If it wasn’t so expensive, I’d have it every single day!
Carpaccio is cured, which is not the same thing as raw. Who here has had beef tartare… and liked it?
According to Merriam-Webster online, it’s raw, as well as the description on the menu where I get it locally.