Meat-Eater

On the day after Christmas, or the day after, or the day after that, Mark made steaks. T-bones. Lots of them. There must have been a dozen. (And I haven't the faintest idea how he got them all done and ready to serve at the same time. He's pretty darned good at that.)

If I spoke once during dinner, I don't remember it. If I even so much as looked up from my juicy T-bone, I don't remember it. How long has it been? A very, very long time. I was focused on finishing that steak.

So he fixed T-bones, and I think he broke me. I've had a craving for meat ever since. Bacon on my breakfast tacos. Ham on my morning egg sandwiches. BBQ for lunch.

My mother once said, I need some extra protein when she was explaining why she was eating so much meat. I rolled my eyes then, but not any more. I'm now sure I need the protein, too.

And Mark and his steaks should take the blame.

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