Mostly rambles, few brambles
I Want My Steak So Rare That It Still Has Hopes and Dreams
Look, cowboy, I know a beef jockey like y’all in a steakhouse like this has fielded your share of requests. I know what I’m a-hankering for, and I’m praying that this here particular meat Mecca—with your veal humidor, your multiple defibrillators, and your souvenir glue—can accommodate.
Save your questions and queries for after my preamble, please. This many words can be exhausting for someone of my carriage, particularly if I am needing to stop and start myself time and time again. It is sweltering out there today and—mercy—I am already wilting like a very drunk flower.
Do kindly interject, though, if I’m moving too fast or if I happen to be wicking too much jowl sweat on you, son.
Understand I have the utmost respect for how y’all do things in this here beautiful little hamlet that smells overwhelmingly like blood. That said, I can be rather exacting about my meals. To your untrained eyes, you may see a mere four-hundred-pound comptroller: a man whose tastes appear so very undiscerning that he is now confined to the world only accessible via Rascal scooter. Though I am not shy about my voraciousness and magnificence, I assure you that I am also kind of picky.
I would ask that you look up from your phone and imagine back to picking a ripe, red strawberry. Biting into it right there, in the field, you taste that sweet, unmistakable freshness of the strawberry’s spooky fruit ghost having not yet departed its Earthly vessel. Your taste buds, they recognize it, though. They know you’ve amassed another helping of spirit power and have worked yourself a touch closed to immortality. Much like a Pac-Man.
That’s what I’m seeking here tonight, but with mammal flesh—and in a porterhouse, if it should be available.
Yankee physician of mine, refuses to acknowledge, whether it be fresh meat or cherries plucked from the lower branches of sidewalk-adjacent trees, that each “food ghost” adds to my immensity and furthers my capacity to remain the county’s fattest comptroller forever. This hoity-toity, New England Journal of Medicine-reading carpetbagger claims it would be unwise for me to continue my “unsanctioned death wish,” but I do plan to outlive that smooth-skinned charlatan, too.
I’d prefer an on-site butchering, now, though my nose is telling me there must be a large-scale slaughterhouse nearby, possibly with a “New Releases” bin. I do ask that my supper had at least been alive today, breathing in the same iron-y tones of blood-drenched air as you or I, before his timely journey into bovine purgatory.
Add a dash of Kosher salt to each side and give it a quick sear to cauterize in those hopes, dreams, and all remaining life-spark.
Now, son, do not cross me. I warn you; I may not be allowed on roller coasters, but the six pleats of my shirt and my Rascal confines will be no match to hold back the awesome, vengeful power of my eternal, comptrolling body.
And I’ll be able to taste if you’re lying—this ain’t my first rodeo, or post-rodeo meat sale.