A Split-Second of Steak

At the edge of the meat small bubbles are sizzling, hissing, popping brightly.  A violet-blue circlet of flames is a hot whisper under the pan.  I am hungry.

There's only meat in the pan.  No good.  I want more.  I find salt, pinch some, and dismiss it from my fingertips.  Go!  Pepper, too.  Go!  The meat will taste better, but I want more.

Onion!  I strip the onion, it protests, and I remind it of its destiny.  It becomes minced at the edge of my sharp keen knife, waves its odor into the air below my nose.  It is eager to join the meat, to my delight.

Onion and meat shisssshhhhh together, steam rising in quick whorls, savory, serendipitous.  My mouth is juicy with waiting, wants the flavors now.  I think of more, of garlic, of mushrooms, of balsamic sour.  I am a magician, the pan my apprentice, the food my spell.

I sit with the plate before me, touch the edge of the smooth, cool ceramic, lift the fork and slice down with a silvery serrated steak knife.  Juice flows in small swirls, the scent of it wafting, gathering me into an expectant, watering-mouthed, breath-held verge.  There it is, my hot food, rising to my waiting mouth and it is a perfection of pleasure.  Yes.  In one split second, I am not hungry, and all the universe is bliss, encompassed entirely by the delicious satisfaction on my tongue.  Ahhhh....