It was a busy week as weeks go. A cornucopia of social duties shaped by the ever-winding, never biased, current of life. Bumper to bumper, inching along congested tarmacs. Shoulder to shoulder in the halls of commerce, forming lines for the shallow and the monetary. Appointments to uphold, and deadlines to beat. Social postures and long-winded phone calls. In the ever-whirling cog of society, you might call it a state of being overly busy, and it’s true. It’s not all non sense tho. Because there within develops a tipping point, a rather glorious fraction of time, nay an opportunity, to raise the metaphoric middle finger and do what comes naturally to a patron of the pit. Indeed, if only but to light a fire and put meat to flame, that seems enough, and oh how it soothes a tattered man’s soul. That is what we did anyways. We had to. For sometimes a man ought to take a time out of his hectic existence, to feverishly, and without guilt, ingest some red meat!
Over a radiant bed of coals, we placed a packet of tin foil potatoes to get things started. Plenty of spuds diced in uniform fashion, drizzled in olive oil, and seasoned in a packet of Lipton onion soup mix. If you haven’t tried Lipton onion soup mix on your hobo potatoes, it ain’t half bad. Wrap it all up in tin foil, and put it over direct heat for about a half hour, or until soft. When the spuds are nearly done, we slid them over to homestead a bit indirect to make room for searing up a couple of mouth water rib eyes.
We love rib eyes here at the pit. Pert near our very favorite cut of steak. Nay, it is our favorite. Lightly dashed in garlic and onion salt, and ushered to its gastronomic destiny over a beautiful bed of coals. And oh what sweet music it is, under a crescent moon, and two twinkling stars aloft, to hear this meat sizzle on a hot iron grate. And do let it sizzle. This is one occasion where it is quite satisfactory to cook over direct heat. A minute or two ought to do. Put don’t flip it quite yet. Instead rotate it about 90 degrees, and give it another minute or so, depending on your heat there. The imperfect math for the quintessential and oft coveted, diamond hatch grill marks. Something we are finding exceedingly easy to come by with this fancy cast iron grate from Craycort Grills. Once you have achieved some pleasurable char marks, flip the rib eye, and suitably repeat.
Standing abreast the pit, tongs in hand, flipping meat over dancing flames is precisely what this old boy needed. You could feel the hecticness of the week dissolve like melted butter into a hot bowl of popcorn. Like a gob of cream cheese on an exhaust manifold. Let the world scatter along henceforth and with out me. I will be quite alright. For there is poetry at the pit tonight. Where soft blue moonbeams drop from on high. Where starlight flirts behind the snowy spruce tops. The fellowship of the coals, and that sweet, immeasurable heat, drawn from the ashen bosom of the old kettle grill. And the quaint aromas of steak that which tarry in the air. Glory! Let the world spin on indeed, and I shall not chase after it. For this is precisely where I pine to be. Pit-side, with my steak and potatoes. This is my respite. A time out for man. And the man declared that it was good! Amen.
Grilled Rib Eye Steaks and Tin Foil Potatoes. For what ails you! Everything you need, and nothing you don’t, to set a man straight again.
We are men. And we are moved by meat. Don’t ask us why. We don’t know. Difficult perhaps to articulate, but easy to appreciate, whence our incisors have pierced the hallowed surface of that perfectly seared steak. Ah yes, steak. A good one will settle a restless man’s soul, and in turn draw him closer to thee, and unto his meatiest ideal. Hark, the world and it’s cares fairly ebb to a faint hush, and the pendulum of the sun at once holds stalwart in the sky, when at last we lay big meat to flame, and simply cook it there amid the rising smoke. Oh how we favor a good steak, abiding in it’s juices, sizzling quietly over a beautiful bed of coals. It moves us.
It was one of those vintage winter afternoons, under skies of sleet and falling snow, where the call of the grill was at it’s most primal. It’s most basic, I should wager. Nothing fancy today, as fancy would only ruin it. Nay, when bridled in the heady thralls of meat lust, let there just be meat on flame, and let hunger be our spice. The rest will sort itself out, by and by. For today, as in days past, we are smitten for the rib eye. The bone-in succulent sort known to send grown men into slobbering fits of idiocy. Plunk one of these down on a man’s plate, and plop a potato along side it, and he is at once and for all the world, a contented species. Gobbling quietly by himself, with no apparent no need for conversation. Like a pacifier to a new born, for a time anyways, he will require little else. Indeed, for a few fleeting minutes, and maybe even more than that, all the world is right. For let it be said, nothing is quite so efficient at setting a man straight, than grilled meat on the bone, and a fashionable side of potatoes.
So next time your looking for something simple off the grill, or have a restless man on your hands, well, ain’t too many things better suited for both, than a perfectly grilled Rib Eye, and the space in time to devour it.