Rare Perfection

Have you ever had one of those days, or one of those projects, where it seems that, no matter what you do, things just work out perfectly?

I took the day off Friday and had planned, among other things, to go grocery shopping and have a steak dinner on the table and ready for Mrs. Farrago's return from work. As it turned out, I spent entirely TOO much time loafing, and ran myself out of time to be able to do anything right, but Mrs. Farrago called from the office to tell me that she had to work late, and she really wasn't hungry, anyway.

Her elderly father, who lives with us, who is dealing with Parkinson's Disease and therefore doesn't always think in a straight line, offered to make a grocery run regardless, and said that we could have the steaks on Saturday instead. I agreed.

Had I gone to the store, I would have picked out the best looking cuts of ribeye, in my opinion the most flavorful cut of steak for the money. And I would have spent just shy of an eternity opening the tops of the corn husks to make sure that the kernels weren't shriveled in any of the ears of corn I picked out. But Mrs. Farrago's father picked the steaks -- top sirloin -- which I feared would be tough as leather by the time they came off the grill. I also noticed that none of the corn husks had been pried open, so it was anybody's guess as to how withered or worm-eaten the corn would be when it got to the table.

Saturday afternoon I fired up the gas grill and started prepping the food. When I husked the corn I saw that each of the three ears was completely unblemished all the way to the tip. Not ONE SHRIVELED KERNEL! Our method for corn-on-the-cob-on-the-grill is to completely husk the ear, then wrap it in aluminum foil and lay it directly on the grate. With the corn over the rear burner, I cut the rind of fat/gristle off of the steaks and noticed that each eight-ounce cut appeared to be a little more marbled than I expected. I ground just a little black pepper on one side of each steak and then put them on the grill, peppered side down. Then I ground another light dusting of pepper on the bare side. All three burners were on high, and I left them that way to sear the steaks two minutes on one side and two minutes on the other. I flipped the steaks again, rolled the corn 180 degrees, and I turned the two front burners to medium and closed the lid.

I went inside fully intent on returning in five minutes to flip the steaks and roll the corn, but I was distracted, and it was probably more like six or seven minutes. A minute or two doesn't sound like much, but it's surprising what that length of time over a flaring, flaming grill can do to a fine piece of meat. I ran out to the grill to find just the bare minimum of flames flaring up to lick at the steaks. I turned them each one last time, admiring the deep brown bars that the grill slats had seared into the steaks. The flesh looked just a little too crispy, however, and I feared that I had ruined at least one of them.

Another five minutes over the covered heat and I plucked the steaks and the corn off of the grill and brought them inside. Just to make sure, I cut open each steak to make sure it was done. Each looked a little too pink, but not raw.

We sat down to dinner and I put the first morsel of meat into my mouth, and I could not believe it was I who had cooked this humble little piece of bovine flesh to such tender, juicy, medium-rare perfection!! It was no Filet Mignon, but it certainly changed my mind about sirloin! And the corn! It was sweet, and tender, and cooked just right to golden perfectness! It made mundane old butter seem a heavenly nectar!

All too soon it was over. We three sat there panting and practically licking our plates clean and wishing each steak had been about three ounces more, each ear of corn about two inches longer!

I am not a cook. I am grillmaster by default, since Mrs. Farrago will not go near the grill. I have a repertiore of burgers, steak, salmon and chicken. None of my preparations have fancy names around them, just what they is; I am a blue-collar griller. And too often I burn one or more parts of the meal. But not Saturday. Saturday the god of fire or the ghost of Julia Child or something smiled favorably down upon me and granted me that elusive culinary perfection.

Now if only such an occurrence could flare up like a cold or a rash, and last for days....