Pepper Steak

Last night my older brother Chuck and wife Kathy took me out to dinner at a fine restaurant by the ocean. We had to wait about an hour to be seated so we wandered around looking in art galleries and walked on the boardwalk. The smell of the sea, and the sound of the crashing waves were nice. I love the smell of salt air and the sound of the surf. In the near distance is the pier, where many early mornings Chuck and I would ride our bikes to fish.

As we ate we talked about growing up, and how different our perspectives were for being raised in the same house. Chuck remembers the silent treatment... I remember the yelling. He remembers a dad that would never do anything with him... I remember a dad who was always doing something with him in the Boy Scouts. "Do you remember the pepper steak dad used to make?" My glands started salivating at the mention of the words. "Yes, that was the best tasting meal I ever ate." "Do you think Mom still has the recipe?" I've looked for it and can't find it. We both knew exactly where the recipe was kept. That space is now filled with candy bars and treats.

It wasn't often that we had company over. I think it happened 2 or 3 times, but when it did, we had pepper steak. It was an all-day ordeal as my dad would prepare the 2-inch thick slab of beef and marinated it for hours. It sat on the counter, in an aluminum pan. The smell was something that tortured us with anticipation. The baked potatoes, wrapped in mud, in the coals waited until the steak was done, as we gathered to eat. What a meal!!!

This morning I was sitting at the kitchen table with my mom and this alien that has the name Dad attached to him. "Mom, do you remember the pepper steak Dad used to make?" "No, she said... I don't like beef." "You don't remember? Oh my gosh, Chuck and I were just talking about it last night. Do you have the recipe?" "I don't know.... but you can look." "It was a newspaper clipping that Dad used to keep right here in the space." So I started through the books, not really thinking I would find it. I flipped open Betty Crocker, and The Joy of Cooking.... nothing. I picked up an old yellowed barbecue cookbook and opened the cover. There, in the inside flap, my dad had hand-written the whole thing, and a few pages back, the newspaper clipping fell out. I just won the lottery.

I'm all excited now, and my dad is looking at me. "Dad, do you remember cooking outside?" He didn't and I went on and on about how good it was. I read him the ingredients. "I did that? How long ago was that?" "Many, many years ago." He started touching the page that had his writing on it. He wanted to put his name on it, and I told him his name was written all over it. Every time I laid the newspaper clipping on top of his writing, he moved it off. He didn't want himself covered up. "I think I need to take this out and put it with my pictures." He is looking at the shrine on top of the TV that displays pictures of himself from years past. My mom raised her voice. "No, it is not going on the TV. It is not a memory." "But, Mom, it is... and he remembers." "If you put it there, I will take it down." So it is not going up on the shrine, but I get to take the original newspaper recipe home with me. I've made a copy and put it back in the book, in case my dad goes looking for it. And the cookbook will go to my brother Chuck.