When life hands you a deadbeat father…

Make steak au poivre and eat it off the good plates!

As loyal readers of this blog (both of you) will remember, my dad can be a bit of a douche when it comes to holidays.

 After Christmas’ Omaha Steaks brouhaha, I didn’t really talk to him for a while. He never remembers to save my phone number, and he changes his so often I can never call him. So, my birthday came and went back in March with no sign from him. “Grand,” I thought to myself, “This means I can skip Father’s Day.”

A week and a half ago, four months and four days after my birthday, a styrofoam cooler the size of a Mini Cooper showed up on my doorstep. Yum, more Omaha Steaks. Attached was a card that read “Happy (late) birthday. These should keep you occupied for a while.”

And indeed they will. For there were filets mignons, top sirloin, tenderloin tips (fondue party, anyone?), twice-baked potatoes, potatoes au gratin; lots of wondrous things. There were also marinated salmon filets, pork chops, and pork hot dogs.

I have never willingly eaten pork in my life, and the only fish I eat is on sushi. And I know it wasn’t a pre-packaged deal from the invoice.

I know it sounds whiny, waah, daddy sent expensive meat and I don’t like it. But really, I’d rather he not have bothered at all than done it all half-assed and four months after the fact. A phone call on my birthday would have been more than sufficient. As Bart Simpson said, “No offense, Homer, but your half-assed under-parenting was a lot more fun than your half-assed over-parenting.”

But, since I have a freezer full of meat, now is the summer of my eating like a king. Tonight, since nobody else is home and work’s been mind-numbing and the gym’s been kicking my ass, I decided to spoil myself. I took a nice thick filet and made a lovely steak au poivre out of it, complete with the theatrical flaming of the brandy. To that I added one of the twice-baked potatoes and served the whole mess (No, I don’t believe in vegetables or greenery) on the fine china, ate it with the sterling, and drank Two Buck Chuck out of Great-Grandma’s old crystal. That, my friends, is living. Of course, being able to afford gas would be nice, too, but one can’t be picky.

Can one?


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