Grilled Skirt Steaks
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I've been thinking a lot about an e e cummings poem lately: #65 from his 1950 collection XAIPE. (Don't even ask me how to pronounce that.)
Here's the poem in its glorious entirety:
I thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings; and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any--lifted from the no
of all nothing--human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
For me, it's that bit about "everything which is yes . . . lifted from the no of all nothing." (That third stanza of the poem, by the way, works really well if you say it quickly out loud. You'll really hear the sense of it. "Human merely being." Holy cow--who couldn't love cummings?)
Specifically, I've been working on finding more "yes"--and celebrating it. In my world right now, daffodils are yes. A "blue true dream of sky," for sure. And the "gay great happening" of life. I was in New York City the other day--and was almost stunned witless (to tears in fact) by the people. Oh, sure, I'm as snarky as ever. I notice first the bad smells, the dross, the constant press. But there's something deeper in at the yes. I was stunned witless by so many people moving about their lives, a writhing mass of life, pressed for time, busy and involved, the way life is.
Too often, I mistake the press for the reality. When in fact the yes lies farther in, further down. I have to stop, to uncover it below the easy cynicism. Finding the yes is called sight. And hearing.
Yes comes in the simplest moments. Like lunch. Bruce and I share the meal most days. We work at home, so it's an easy bit of yes. Yet I often take it for granted, let it slip into the simple cynicism of the press of deadlines.
Yesterday, he grilled up some skirt steaks, about the most mundane things around. Be honest: don't those things on the cutting board at the grill look like the "no of all nothing."
Skirt steak is about my favorite cut of beef: a flavorful bit, certainly chewier than other steaks and so in need of a simple marinade, but pretty terrific on the grill. It's a long flat strip from the cow's belly, a bit of meat from down in the base of things. The part where no resides. From which yes lifts.
All Bruce did was put the steaks in a bowl, pour Worcestershire sauce on top (yes, my own), and let them sit in the refrigerator overnight. Period.
He fired up the grill to high, then lay the steaks right over the fire. They cook very quickly, about 4 minutes a side for medium-rare.
I should add that the steaks come from the Whippoorwill Farm in Salisbury, Connecticut. Bruce and I have become such fans of grass-fed meat--and of having the privilege of shaking the hands of the people who raise the animals.
Pretty soon, the steaks were the perfect lunch. He let them stand at room temperature for a couple minutes, then sliced them into thin strips the narrow way, angling the knife to get slightly thicker slices.
With a walnut and lentil salad, it was a moment of yes, all too easily missed if my eyes and ears are not awake and open.
(By the way, the flower shot at the opening of this entry was of the two clematis in our garden last summer. Here's hoping for soon--because they are definitely yes.)
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Reader Comments (2)
Beautiful post, and I love the poem. Perfect for Earth Day. As for skirt steak, it was my dad's favorite thing to make for my brother and me after my parents split up. Long live skirt steak... yes!
Oh, sheesh: "after my parents split up." That doesn't sound too good. But skirt steak is. When I was a kid, it was the steak of choice for fajitas. (Or fah-jee-tahz, as we called them--and we lived IN TEXAS. Sigh.)