When I got home that night, I decided to fry up some steaks. Their best before date was tomorrow, so it was definitely time.
Brenda, my soon-to-be ex-wife, had never wanted me to fry steaks. She wanted them broiled – which always set off the smoke detector, since she wanted them well done. I’m a medium rare kind of guy. A little blood on the plate never killed anybody – assuming it’s not YOUR OWN blood, of course.
And the thing is, how can you trust broiling? I mean, you set the temperature, stick them in the oven, and then trust them to do what they’re supposed to?
No way, dude. I like them in the frying pan where I can see what kind of shenanigans are going on. None of this blind faith in the oven shit for me!
I fried the steaks to perfection, sat on my non-leather, non-pretentious couch and ate them without ketchup – along with some muffin tin quiches the kids and I had made on the weekend. It was a damn fine supper (with a couple glasses of wine).
Then I got out my banjo and played a few songs, nodding off a couple times before deciding to finally go to bed.
As perfect an evening as can be, if you have to spend it alone.