Everything is, everything must be soft and beautiful. My days are surrounded by the music of flutes, by the creek tinkling by my window, water flowing down my cabin's window pane in the rain, a patch of sunlight on the wildflowers, patchouli floating on the wind. I am free, my life is free; I am a wave in the ocean, a cloud in the sky, a metaphor. Peace and love for all reasons, for whatever reason.
Except.
Except.
Except I really want a steak.
A steak. No tofu. No tempeh. No garden burger, bean cake, protein substitute bratwurst-shaped bullshit. No organic, home-grown, environmentally-sound alternative. I want a steak. From a cow. Chock full of hormones. Preferably a sirloin, but a tenderloin would do. Extra rare, cold in the middle, with salt and pepper, maybe some horseradish.
I have waited a week to confess, not sure who would be sympathetic to my plight. I feel like a junkie, pale, weak with wanting. Finally I own up one day after lunch, in the bathroom at Earthfare, to my not-so-politically correct friend Alice. I think she might be cool with it.
We're washing our hands, somewhat replete from a meal of wasabi pancakes with turnip green syrup. I can't believe we eat some of this stuff. Reminds me of the things they had on Fear Factor when I was a little kid, no shit.
I whisper at first, just to get the words out. She doesn't hear me, so I say it louder.
"I want a steak," I say again, and this time I think she hears me, although her response is merely a slightly-raised pierced eyebrow.
Emboldened, I continue.
"Doesn't even have to be a good one. I'll take a steakhouse steak, maybe even well done with Heinz 57 sauce, and an iceberg lettuce salad with thousand island dressing." Man, I am sinning now.
She harumphs then, sure I am joking. I surely am not. We have to get back to work now, and I need a plan.
"Do they even have cheap steakhouses anymore?" I ask as we get in her Prius after work. I mean, I need a steak, but I can't swing Ruth Chris on an entry-level salary.
"I think they're all closed around here, Bella. You may need to go somewhere more, you know, Velveeta friendly," she shoots me a glance out of the side of her eyes, sizing me up.
"Well, help me think," I plead. Alice pulls out on the road, deep in thought. She snaps her fingers and smiles as we careen down the freeway.
"Golden Corral," She pronounces with no small degree of triumph. "In Greenville. Wilma Christy is going tomorrow night with some church lady friends, and you just invited yourself, Miss Thing."