Someone Should Build a Statue of This Steer

A few days back, I found an old 2″-thick prime rib eye in the freezer (2010 vintage), and I decided to have it for Sunday dinner. Tonight I thawed it out, salted it down, fried it in butter and salt, and served with garlic butter and a baked potato.

Seriously, this is not normal. Food should not be this good. I have gone beyond the “good cook” phase. I think I am entering the “warped evil food genius” category.

I have never had restaurant food this good. I have never had restaurant food within a letter grade of this good.

The outside of the steak was crunchy and salty, with all sorts of what foodies call “umami.” The inside…buttery-garlicky-agey-tasting fat poured off it every time I cut a bite. It had the perfect touch of aged-prime-rib funk. I overcooked it slightly–I swear my thermometer plays tricks on me–and it was still about three light years beyond the farthest point a Ruth’s Chris steak can see with the Hubbell Telescope. Or even the Hubble Telescope, which, unlike the Hubbell Telescope, exists.

Frigging middle-aged spelling.

What am I supposed to do with this? I can’t eat these things. Not regularly. I would die in a month and a half. I have no practical use for this. I feel like a guy who plays better than Horowitz, but only on the spinet in his aunt’s attic.

Wheeeee. I am still enjoying that steak. Just thinking back on it gives me a thrill. And the potato was even better, especially when daubed in the beef juice and butter.

Surely–SURELY–God has a purpose in this. It makes no sense otherwise.

Time to call Mike and make him jealous.