Image: Rory Bristol
Sunday, we went to the store. Jenny got me to go by agreeing that I could have donuts, which is often the only way to get my out of the house. Just kidding. I mean, I did get donuts, shame on me. But I do leave the house for other things. Sometimes. God Dammit. What was I going to talk about?
Oh, yeah, thanks, helpful title!
We found a really nice sale at our local butcher’s, and ended up getting many, many pounds of steak. Most of it was promptly frozen, to stave off crazy meat prices in the winter, but I got to have steak for dinner, and it was awesome.
Of course, I don’t have anything resembling a grill anymore. My camp stove was re-homed after its 2-years-in-the-closet anniversary. So I turned to the wonderful world of the Internet. I was gonna google “How do I cook a fucking steak?” And NO FUCKING SHIT, DUDES, MY WIFE SENT ME TO THIS:
Screenshot of TheAwl.com
Some wonderful, perverse person, named Alex, wrote the most profane description of cooking a steak, and it was exactly what I needed. You can find it on TheAwl.com. I had to try it. I followed the directions exactly, even avoiding “garlic or onion powder or COMPOUND FUCKING BUTTER, asshole” just like I was told. Good boy, Rory. Good boy.
If I ever need to be taken down a peg, I can be, thanks to the aggressive and derogatory narrative. I actually stuck my tongue out at the screen all “So there, ha” at a fucking recipe, because God, I’m weird. It also felt really good. Like, I-suddenly-feel-less-anxious good.
I followed his extremely simple plan, and made some amazing-ass steak. Jenny didn’t think it was as “amazing-ass” as I did, but she’s allowed to be wrong sometimes. Today, I’m avoiding making more, and not-so-secretly hoping that the leftover 6 oz. steak in the fridge might be claimed by yours truly.
Go cook a fucking steak. Then tell me about it, ’cause I wanna know!
zooey
Rory
zooey
Rory