Day 223: 369 Words About Steak
It’s Thursday. And you know what that means. Actually, you probably don’t. I don’t really know, either. But I’ve decided that Thursday is the day that I write a random number of words about a random topic. After several pieces, I still don’t have a name for this. I probably never will. But I’ll do it every Thursday. This week’s request came from Zook: 369 words about steak.
Steak. It’s a wonderful thing. It’s also pretty awful. I have a lot of mixed feelings about the matter. Most cheesesteaks I consume disappoint me. It’s so easy for steak to go wrong. It can also be difficult to go right. Steak is polarizing in that regard. Also, I’m no longer allowed to eat steak. It’s a long story that would surely run more than 369 words. Instead, here’s a shorter story about a previous time that I wasn’t allowed to eat steak. Because I guess that’s a thing that happens.
When I was a kid, our play area in the basement had a Budweiser Light ad on the wall. It featured some hot dogs and a steak. I would stare at the sign and imagine eating the hot dogs. It was a goddamn delight. I didn’t imagine drinking the beer, because I figured that all light brown beverages tasted like Vernors (which to a 4 year old is infinitely yucky).
But the steak took center stage in my mind. It looked absolutely perfect. The grill marks were symmetrical, it was oozing with juice, the works. In reality, it never added up to my expectations. Whenever my Mom cooked steak, it didn’t look anything like the poster. The grill marks (if any) were straight lines, no perfectly symmetrical diamonds. It was nowhere near as thick or juicy. And worst of all, she made me eat it with this really gross sauce that tasted like vinegar.
I dreaded steak night. Luckily, it didn’t happen often. But then whenever we went to Ponderosa, my Dads steak looked amazing. It was everything I imagined a real steak to be. I’d beg for a steak of my own, but alas, I never ate my steak at home. I didn’t deserve one. Also, I could never get my ice cream in a Blue Jays helmet, which irritated me further. My apologies to the wait staff of the Corunna Ponderosa. I was a total nightmare.
One last thing: Zook has requested that I add one more joke to BFD’s defunct book project, “369 Jokes To Tell At A Steakhouse”. Ahem.
Why was Scott Norwood banned from the steakhouse?
Because he was too liable to choke.