Breaking up is hard.
You
know what else is hard?
Admitting
that you were wrong.
Confessing
that you made a mistake.
And
getting back together.
Time
to get my hands bloody again.
Don’t
worry, my darling. I’ll be gentle.
I
run an ungloved hand slowly along six pounds of uncut tenderloin, reacquainting
myself with this old flame. We’re gonna
do this together.
Flip
it over, flip it over.
Press
it all flat on the board with the palm of my hand.
This is not the frenzied
fumbling of first-time lovers. This is the
authoritative touch of that one ex who knew all your buttons, and just the
right way to push them.
I can’t promise that this won’t
hurt . . . but I can promise . . . you won’t feel a thing.
I
go for the strap first.
My
knife enters the meat like a sigh, gliding through blood and fat.
Next
I go after the silver skin.
It
comes off easy, and smooth. Seems I haven’t
lost my touch after ten months away. So
cutting meat is kind of like riding a bike; or if you’re me, like riding a
motorcycle: you do it inconsistently
enough that it still gives you a little anxiety every time you hop back on, so
you take it slow.
But
I don’t feel anxious right now.
As
I clean the gunk off the underside of the tender, I go into a sort of
meditative state. My hands flow like
breath; my mind is clear.
And my finished product is beautiful, as
always.
