Remember how I mentioned in the post about our cat tree that The Dad gave us steaks that became the victims of an unfortunate incident? Well, since today is the one week anniversary of the smell sort of hanging around our apartment I thought I’d finally explain how the whole thing went down.
When he brought the furniture, he revealed that he’d also brought several steaks along for us. In case you haven’t heard, we are so broke that it is embarrassing, and I’m not talking about “oh no, we bought a new iPad and now we can’t go to the concert” broke. I am talking about “we paid rent so now we’re scraping the bottom of the loose change jar for enough cash to buy a box of noodles” broke. It sucks. So The Dad thought he’d help out by bringing us some of the steaks his boss bought from a traveling steak salesman. Yeah, I didn’t know those existed until just now.
It would seem that The Dad took home more steaks than a single man can handle, so when he brought us the secondhand everything he also brought us the steaks. Even through the vacuum sealed pouches I could tell they were quality. Because we don’t have a grill, we decided the best way to cook the steaks was to broil them. Since I get squicky when it comes to raw meat, Mister E is the one who prepares it. I read the instructions to him from the internet and we sat down to play on the internet and read books until they were done.
Our first indication that things were about to get weird was an odd, sweet smell in the kitchen when we were preheating the oven. Lemony, almost. It took us a few minutes to realize that the last piece of the lemon fail cake I made weeks ago was still sitting in there. Mister E took it out and we continued on with the plan.
Once the oven was ready we put in the pan and set the timer, confident that we’d solved every problem that might come our way. After a little while, we could smell the steaks cooking and they smelled lovely. We discussed side dishes and saving the rest of the steaks for later, then I noticed that the lovely smell was getting kind of burny. I pointed this out to Mister E, who has a less-than-accurate sense of smell and he went to the oven to check them out.
Amidst the smoke pouring out of the oven, Mister E could see that the steaks were sort of a little bit on fire. He threw the pan on the stove and proceeded to rip the melted potholder off the pan while I flung open the doors and tried to dismantle the shrieking smoke detector. The resulting smell of burnt yarn and blackened meat took days to leave our apartment.
In case you’re wondering, we didn’t throw the steaks away. As I indicated earlier, we’re broke as hell and it would take a lot more than a thin (okay, thick) layer of charcoal on a perfectly good steak to put us off. We did cut the dried up and burnt ends off the steaks to offer them to the cats, though. They refused them, thus marking the first and probably only time that they turned their backs on food. It was totally their loss, though, because the steaks were delicious. As an added bonus, they were really tender inside because the leathery outside held in all the juice.
We regret nothing.