It is 12:37 in the morning, Tuesday, May 20th, and I am filled with meat and blood and happiness.
The poor-man’s steak is an art;
The packaging, a contradiction, emblazoned with the separate labels:
“USDA Top Choice Sirloin”, followed by “Extreme Value!”
Top choice for the bottom shelf.
I squish the steaks in their plastic wrap, searching for I-Don’t-Know-What
Cancer, probably. The sensation is cathartic.
These are thick-ass sirloins, bite-your-bottom-lip-fine-looking-on-the-dance-floor cuts
A night in the marinade (hand-ground chipotle sauce, black peppercorns, half of a Dos Equis),
keeps that shit so juicy you can cook it long enough to get a tender medium-rare without
fucking the outer layers into hockey-puck charcoal oblivion.
It tastes like pipe smoke, blood, peppers, and cheap beer, like home in the summer.
Doesn’t sound elegant, because it’s not
It’s carnal, carne, fuck-ing meat.
With some garlic mashed potatoes and fresh sweet corn, it’s blue-collar America on a plate
A knife’s edge between the darkening street and the whitewashed porch,
Evening light flickering with hummingbird moths.