Have you ever been so hungry that food talked to you, I have, and this is that story.
I’m hungry, but what do I choose—from somewhere in the distance I hear a whisper.
Choose me, while other foods may snap-crackle-pop—I sizzle. Imagine a late night craving and a midnight rendezvous. You head for the kitchen where I wait for you—tender, juicy, and plump, longing for your gentle touch to bring me into perfection.
Piercing moonlight dances through the pitch black of night, shimmering its magic upon the shiny utensils that lay before you. You reach in the cabinet and pull out that old black skillet handed down through the generations. You place it on the stove with the clank of cold steel upon the burner. You ignite the flame with a whoosh, and three pats of pure golden delight start to sizzle.
You make your way to where I wait, and with a glimmer of lust in your eyes, you open my cold dark coffin and wake me from my slumber. I am your cowboy steak; two-pounds of pure American beef waiting for your direction.
As a whiff of creamy delight tickles your nostrils, you know it’s almost time. A quick rub of olive oil, made in a little province in Tuscany—a dash of sea salt, a splash of red wine vinegar, and a hint of coarse ground pepper—and into the skillet I go. Ssssssss
A quick flip and you reduce the flames and wait. I am all you need, but a simple salad will make a nice threesome. A crisp romaine, some leafy greens, and a blood moon tomato halved and quartered—a dash of salt, a hint of lemon and creamy garlic, and soon—we will be together.
You light a candle, and pour a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, and it is time.
You plate me, take your seat, and with a gentle slice begin to dine. As flickers of moonbeams pierce the night, you notice a crimson blood start to trickle down one side of your mouth—warm and soft like a Vampires kiss—you giggle with anticipation of what’s to come, and in the still of the night, you feast.
I know what I’ll be having.
Terry A. Elkins (whyguy)