Tonight was the best night I’ve had in a long time. I was rooting through my roommate’s kitchen for something to eat (white rice with chili powder is filling and cheap but grows tedious after the third month of the stuff), when I happened across a little bundle of magic tucked way, way back in the freezer. It was a steak, an actual honest-to-God steak, one I’d bought literally two years ago, still sealed in the original cryovac, solid as a rock and utterly impervious to the ravages of time.
An hour in running water defrosted that sucker, and five minutes on each side in a blazing hot pan turned it into a feast. I like lots of crust on my steak, so I par-cooked it, cubed it and returned it to the pan with a little onion and garlic powder and a couple tablespoons of water. The water dissolved the yummies on the bottom of the pan and turned into a kind of paste with the stuck-on meat juices and the spices. Toss the meat cubes in the resulting ambrosia and dine, dine, dine.
I ate it with rice. Naturally.
Dinner was an hour ago and I haven’t brushed my teeth yet. Every time I smack my lips I can taste wonderful, wonderful beef.
Next time I find myself flush with steady income, I’m going to buy a whole case of those perfect, vacuum-sealed steaks and hide them way in the back of the freezer and forget about them. ‘Cause discovering that little eight-ounce miracle tonight was like Christmas morning, Easter Sunday and my birthday all rolled into one.
Poverty — as I think I’ve said before — has a wonderful way of clarifying the mind.
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