I’ve discussed the antidepressant effects of eating pizza on Sunday night — how it soothes the soul before Monday morning comes along and rips it right out of your hairy chest — but my German wife and I don’t always have pizza. Sometimes we get crazy and warm up frozen baguettes. Or throw a rack full of hors d’oeuvres in the oven. We’ve even made some of Dr. Oetker’s pizza burgers. And one time? We didn’t eat anything from the frozen food aisle; we cooked American style steaks. (And no one even burned themselves on the grill.)
It was back in September of 2012, around 9:00pm. Sunday night had us both in the palm of its dirty hand, just like a huge, invisible sex offender. The clatter of the plates was too loud. The slicing of the vegetables took too long. But the sizzle of the steak? Oh, that was perfect. I brought those two slabs of meat to a perfect, medium rare pink (with a hot porno center). I took the steaks off the grill and slid them onto our plates knowing I had successfully represented America and defended its freedom for another day. And that’s when my wife demanded I put the steaks back on the grill because she wasn’t done cutting the green onions and she didn’t want the meat to get cold.
She was being a little pissy that night, you see, so we argued and of course she won. The steaks went right back on the grill. I felt I’d achieved a respectable compromise, however, by keeping the heat on “low.” Five minutes later, I turned around to find the grill had not only been turned back up, but was now set to “hot as the devil’s red nutsack.” The meat was disgracefully overcooked and my wife and I bickered a little more. But later, as we brought our plates into the living room so we could eat while watching a movie, she apologized for her negative attitude:
THE WIFE: “I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry I pooped around.”