Memory is a wonderful gift. When it comes to using my cast aluminum grill, in recent years, I've lost my touch. They say that practice makes perfect, and that may be part of the problem. For almost two years when we were in temporary housing, I didn't use the grill at all. We were in a townhome community where our nearest neighbor was ten feet away. That's a little too close for comfort when you're cooking with charcoal and the fire is flaming once you strike a match.
For the past year, I've had no excuse. We have plenty of space to use the charcoal grill at our new home. In addition, when you have a lawn of rock, the danger of catching the non-existent grass on fire isn't an issue. There is nothing to burn.
When it comes to "Granddad's burgers," my comfort level has been restored. They normally come off the grill the way I intend. The few times this past year when I've grilled steak, disappointingly the outside of the steak was seared the way I wanted, but it was not camouflaging a thick layer of pink on the inside. Well done doesn't resonate with me, but it takes me back to my childhood.
A couple of days ago, a friend who has tried to reach me for several years and subsequently was provided my current telephone number by a mutual friend, let me know that the person assigned my previous telephone number probably got more than an earful when he left messages for me to return his call.
When he finally connected with me, he asked: "What was your previous number?" I didn't remember. Later in the day, the old number flashed across the resources of my memory. It was (512) 826-&%@#. The last four digits are in my head, but I didn't want to tempt you to call me for old times' sake.
In the resources of my head, while I looked forward to grilling ribeye steaks for dinner with friends last night, the formula for getting it right came out of nowhere. With a very hot bed of charcoal, the formula was 4 x 4 (four minutes on each side). Some might refer to that as fast food, but it makes for a culinary delight.
When I was a kid growing up, I didn't know that pink was ever an option when it came to steak. My dad's definition of done was "well done". Consequently, I didn't know what I didn't know. Apparently, neither did my dad.
Last night's meal turned out just the way I had hoped. There were many compliments to the chef. Of course, all I did was the main course. The General took care of the vegetables. In addition, the cheesecake for dessert was a prefect pairing with the steak. I may have another piece for breakfast.
My son didn't know I was grilling steak last night, but he sent the attached picture anyway. I hoped it wasn't an omen of things to come. Fortunately, it was not.
All My Best!
Don
No comments:
Post a Comment