King of my Kitchen

It was 11 o’clock and the savory scent of cooked cow wafting from the broiler had me pacing around the kitchen like a starved lion hunting a wounded wildebeest. Thin white smoke escaped from the broiler only to be sucked away by the hood fan. Salivating with bloodlust, I flipped the slab of perfectly seared sirloin and gently sliced it to examine its tender, pink center. I let out a low growl of approval as I set the sizzling meat aside and bathed it in A-1 and Worcestershire sauces.

After two, seemingly endless minutes, I pounced with predatory fury; total carnage ensued. Imaginary death squeals filled my ears. Tuffs of fur drifted to the floor. The stabbing fork’s tines and slicing serrated knife blade clanked and scraped a high-pitch rhythm on the porcelain plate. Chewy bits of fat and tiny strands of tendon packed between my teeth. My tongue was slippery with juices. My teeth gnashed and gnawed at the succulent steak.

As the feast was devoured, my pace slowed and I soaked the remaining meaty morsels in the glistening pool of coagulated drippings, savoring the beast’s finale. Then, like a lion polishing bare bones with its rigid tongue, I spun the empty plate and slurped up any evidence of the steak’s existence.

Reclined on the sofa, my appetite satiated, I purred softly and drifted off to sleep. Vegetables are fine, but there is no substitute for a late night steak.