Family Beef

Why? Arguably, this is a question asked by everyone at some point in their lives, whether it’s used as a form of complaint or to declare an existential crisis. This was exactly what I asked myself as I watched little drops of blood trickle from my bottom lip and onto my white, Pink Floyd Tee. I reached for a tissue to tend to the indent my upper left canine had made in my lip, and where the evidence of the scene was still overflowing. I lightly dabbed the tender area and planned to apply some sugar afterward to stop the bleeding. My brother was laughing at me, the contents of his mouth on display for everyone in the room to see. He, my mother, and my father were each enjoying their own hefty servings of rump steak while I was slicing away at my saucer-sized hake. It was Friday or rather ‘Fillet Friday’, which was a weekly happening to celebrate the end of the week and the coming of the weekend in addition to getting in a dose of iron only acquired from some lean beef. Considering I was a pescatarian, I could not appreciate the exclusivity of the tradition. It had been going on for five years already, and my change of diet was three years old. Yet the tradition remained the same; was I but to remain on the sidelines like some sort of salad?

. . .

My sister stared at me in disapproval. Why? She was probably thinking to herself as I chomped off a piece of steak, the blood dripping from my mouth. Medium rare to rare, that was how I liked it. My sister was a pescatarian and to her, I might have been a barbarian. But considering how my mom and dad enjoyed their red meat just like me, the majority seemingly ruled in our household. Every Friday we ate steak. It was our tradition. I believed it had started a few years prior when I was sixteen. We had steak for my birthday, and I suggested we eat it more regularly. Now “Fillet Fridays” became a thing, thanks to me. Ouch! My sister bit her lip. I laughed. We both now had blood in our mouths, the same outcome to different actions. My steak needed some more salt.

. . .

I was watching my husband eat his steak. I’m sure he became aware of my widened- eyes as he ingested a piece of meat, notably larger than the size of his mouth. I knew he loved his meat, but I had become weary of his diet ever since his health scare a few years prior. After going through that awful experience, the premonition of hypertension and a subsequent heart attack became oh so intrusive. How was I to ensure that my husband remained happy and healthy? Eating steak once a week seemed to be the easiest solution.

. . .

How was I to inform my wife that she was delusional? That is, without hurting her feelings. She has always been a hypochondriac, and I let it slide until that meant I could not eat what I wanted. I do not have high blood pressure, and I am more likely to die in a car accident than from a myocardial infarction. Five years ago I had fainted due to overwork. While at the hospital, the doctor had shown us the X-ray of some stranger who had died in their sleep, and my wife was convinced - even after the real results were presented – that the universe was suggesting my well-being was at risk. Now we eat steak only once a week. As a bodybuilder, this seemed preposterous to me because I only have that much control over my diet. Fortunately, she wouldn’t touch my chicken breast.

. . .

“How about we change Fillet Fridays to Fish Fridays? So that we can all enjoy the same meal together” I suggested suddenly. “I can’t be sacrificing my red meat forever” my dad had replied. “What do you mean by sacrifice? I’m doing you a service,” said my mother. My parents began to quarrel about whether the steak was actually for my dad’s health or for my mother’s need to control another aspect of his life. “Anyway,” interrupted my brother, “we cannot get rid of Fillet Friday’s because it’s special for the fact that it commemorates my birthday”. I burst out laughing. “What?” I said without hesitation. “We all know that steak is for special events? The coming of the weekend calls for a proper feast better than the birthday of a scoundrel such as yourself. ” Then my brother and I began to quarrel. It seemed as though we all had different ideas about what had led to the founding of ‘Fillet Fridays’. Why I had even involved myself in the argument was beyond me; I didn’t even eat steak. “Wait!” I yelled, bringing to a halt all the disagreements which were taking place in our living room. The sound of Modern Family was almost inaudible in the background. What had been the point of our tradition? Why could we not agree to disagree? Why did my family love steak so much? Why? Why? Why? I was confused and irked by the idea that something as simple as a piece of meat could be what would have led to a separation among my family members. All the knives were out and pointed at one another, and no longer at what we had been on our plates. “Perhaps,” I began, “Fridays should be free,” I stated. “We eat what we want.” Everybody looked at one another and then in the direction of nothing as though to appear pensive. We all agreed that the nuance of Fridays was that of a relaxed nature. So why was it that we had made such a big deal about a day? From that day onwards, we would eat what we wanted on a Friday, no terms and conditions, and think up a new, all-inclusive tradition - and not about food.