Abby Roeser

Non-Fiction Writing- Sara Primo

April 10th, 2013

Eating Steak

I beg myself not to want it. I force myself to think Remember, Abby, it’s a cow, and you don’t eat cow. You don’t don’t eat it anymore, over and over. However, my empty stomach has other plans, it yearns for the piece of juicy grilled steak. My mouth waters at the slightest sight of the words “Filet Mignon” on the menu. You don’t want it Abby, It’s COW!” So, It’s decided, I’ll just get pasta with vegetables, instead. Pasta can make a perfectly adequate, and even quite enjoyable meal. The waitress comes around, and stares at me. Her pen is poised over her pad. “...and for you?,” she asks with an artificial smile and a fake melody of  friendliness in her voice. I prepare myself to ask for pasta, but instead I pause for a few seconds; the waitress's smile quickly falls away with impatience. Instinctively, I say, “Filet mignon, please, medium-rare.” The tiniest pang of regret surges through me before images of savory juicy meat pull my mind back to the meal ahead.

As I wait for my food my thoughts wander, and the tiny voice in my head once again begins to gain momentum. You're going to eat a dead cow? an innocent cow? how could you? I try to picture the cow when it was living; I can’t help but picture a muddy pen, stuffed tightly with stressed and restless cattle. I wonder if I were to be face to face with the cow before he was killed, what I could say to him, though of course he wouldn’t understand. I guess I could say thank you, or say that I was sorry. But above all, I would have to make sure that he knew that it was not his fault that he was SO delicious, and I would beg him to please forgive me.

The sight of waiters whizzing by my table, burdened with steaming platters snaps my mind back to the noisy atmosphere of the restaurant.  I wonder now, with all these images in my head of suffering livestock, how I could ever eat my steak, or even eat steak ever again.  I’m beginning to think that I should have ordered  pasta, when my waitress sets down a heavy white plate in front of me. The plate is framed with cloud-like mash potatoes, and bright, plump asparagus. However, in the center, there is the subject of the masterpiece. The thick, yet small cut of meat is a deep glistening caramel color. I am relieved to see that it is minimally seasoned, just sprinkled with a bit of salt. Only a mediocre steak needs clumsy layers of spices, or a thick coating of sauce to hide its not-so-impressive taste. It’s been awhile since I’ve started a steak in the eyes. I clench a fork in one hand and a knife in the other, but I hesitate. Where should I disrupt the perfectly seared surface? I go for the corner, sawing off a tiny chunk of meat. I begin to bring it to my mouth as the voice in my head begins to frantically shout, Don’t do it, don’t eat it, you are a MURDERER. As the steak touches my tongue the voice sputters and dies. How could I ever have guilt for enjoying something this delicious? The steak is tender, but not soft. The surface has a subtle salty crisp, as if to protect the treasure just below it’s surface.  The inside is a fresh pink color, gleaming with savory juice. It's pure healthy muscle, no fat or sinew. I eat each modest bite leisurely, letting the juices ooze from it in my mouth. . The unbelievable richness and heaviness of even the smallest bite, can satisfy my palate. I eat the entire cut of meat, left over steak is not one of those foods that is better the second time around. Looking at my clean plate, I have no regrets. My carnivore side has been satisfied once again, by the most delicious of foods.