Overnight Broil

Our grocery store put London Broil on sale. So, I bought a huge fatty hunk of steak. I had read in Esquire that the best meat was the cheap fatty cut, preferably with a bone.

Things were starting to get more and more hectic as it looked less and less likely that LV was going to be able to take off the days he wanted before the wedding. We were working late and there were places to go after work. The London broil sat in the meat drawer, and I kept worrying it would spoil.

Wednesday night, I think, I chopped up an onion and a bunch of grape tomatoes, rubbed the steak with seasoning and olive oil, and then stuck it all in a big Zip-lock bag to marinate.

Thursday night I had way too much to drink.

Friday I didn't make the steak for dinner. Still worried it might spoil, I ran around the house, looking for the issue of Equire that said how to prepare a fatty cut of steak. Was it March? Was it February? Was it under the coffee table? Was it at the office?

I finally found the issue (around 10 p.m.?) and read what I already knew--set the oven to 250 degrees, place steak in oven, go to bed. I thought my steak was too small for eight hours. I set the alarm for six. That still seemed too long, but maybe five would be too short.

At 5:30 a.m., I woke up, couldn't believe how good the house smelled, and went to rescue my steak. I didn't expect it to be swimming in a tar-like substance. I was sure I had ruined everything.

The directions said to let the steak sit in its own juices for the rest of the day, but I went ahead and immediately put the dish into the refrigerator. I'd figure out what to do with it all later.

"Later" was about about 5:30 p.m. at which time I decided to make some pasta and asparagus and hope the steak tasted good after it been reheated. LV assured me it really was good. The only complaints I heard from Scrappy was about the asparagus. Considering her steak was covered in a burnt crust of vegetables (I wasn't completely successful it scraping it off her portion), it's really a wonder that the asparagus is what was going to make her throw up. Not the asparagus stalks, mind you--the bushy part that "tastes like water."

One week away and little sanity left, I told her that if she threw up on the table, I'd make her clean it up. She finished all the asparagus, no reversals of fortune.