Blood

My father and I both love our steak rare.
My mother has a hard time watching us eat it.
My father jokes at restaurants that they should do a polite introduction of the steak to the fire, then rush it to us.
My mother always tells my dad to make sure the steak and the fire are old friends before it arrives on her plate.
My father and I eagerly comment on how beautifully the blood runs as we cut in.
My mother barely touches her bloodless ribeye.
My father remarks it’s a waste of money to buy a good piece of meat and then cook it to death.
My mother says to give the rest of her steak to our dogs.
My father says overcooked meat will sit like stones in their stomachs and constipate them.
My mother looks tired of hearing this.
My father looks tired of saying this.
Our dogs always eat rare pieces of my father’s steak; my mother’s steak always becomes hash and onions.