The Rest

You rest a steak. That's what it says everywhere. Ten minutes, loosely covered. I put it on a board, I set a timer, and I stood beside it like a man guarding a very small hospital.

At ten minutes I touched it. It was ready. But it was thick, and I had a feeling the middle hadn't gotten the message. So I gave it ten more.

At twenty it was lukewarm. At thirty, it was a steak in a room.

So I put it back on the grill for a minute, to bring it up. Which, I'm aware, is the opposite of resting. Which meant it had to rest again.

My wife looked in from the kitchen and said the steak had been resting for an hour. I said it's had a long week.

Everybody else had pasta. Around nine, the kids went up. The timer went off again, and I cut into it, and I want to say it was the best steak I've ever had, but I had no one to say that to. I stood in the yard with the fork.

It was the most relaxed steak I've ever eaten.

I'd say it had the best week of anybody in the house.