We All Need A Steak Night In Our Lives

Sunday evenings at my house are known as ‘steak night.’ Most of you in my regular orbit know about steak night and how this is a sacred, weekly ritual.

The sacred steak night has absolutely nothing to do with food. 

It has everything to do with love.

This longstanding tradition at my home is also a quasi-vestige of the days when families would have Sunday dinners together, enjoying a meal which was more than a weeknight assembly of food. 

I grew up with this ritual.

In the Irish tradition, Sunday dinner is a roast, often so overdone it is unrecognizable. But, with plenty of gravy along with mashed potatoes, the meat becomes irrelevant. 

Sundays back then were first-class dinners before we slid down the week into second-class eating like hamburger or the obligatory Friday tuna casserole.

While always part of our home routine when the kids were growing up, the Sunday tradition became an essential part of life for me several years ago after my father died. My husband and I would drive the 45 minutes to San Francisco every Sunday for nearly two years, as we attempted to clean-out my childhood home. 

During those years, Sundays were rough as I processed my grief and the loss of my family of origin, uncovering precious, forgotten memories throughout the house while preparing the home for sale and saying goodbye forever.

We often left that house feeling little was accomplished and would return home exhausted, smelling of cigarettes.  Both my parents smoked and the odor in the house was pungent and like a virus; there was no way to avoid being infected with the smell of cigarettes. 

Still, to this day, I remember the smell of that home, and though cigarettes are very unattractive to me, the smell conjures deep, fond memories.   

So, on those Sundays, by the time we navigated traffic back to our home as I processed memories of my childhood, we were both in desperate need of a good bottle of red wine and a steak to mark the end of a long week and celebrate whatever form of mild accomplishments were achieved at Douglass Street.

Becca, Bill’s youngest daughter and the one who lives nearby, was always welcome to join steak night while her Dad was alive, particularly during the last year of his life. 

The two of them would sit on the couch in front of the TV, catch-up, and watch people chase balls - footballs, golf balls, basketballs, soccer balls, or baseballs. Any ball would do.

And during those years, Bill, who was not a gourmand by any stretch of the imagination - think Hamburger Helper, Sloppy Joe's and something he invented, 'beanie/weenies,' baked beans and hot dogs - instructed Becca (and me, when I was paying attention) how to grill the perfect steak.

When Bill died and the grief set in, steak night became something more than just a way to unwind and connect. It was now an essential weekly ritual which continued to preserve something very precious to us – the connection and love we have for each other and him. 

So, for more than 20 months now, Becca and I get together every Sunday for steak night. 

We eat steak, drink good wine - usually plenty of it - and talk.

This is our religion and our church.  We do it to honor and remember him and to support each other as we find ourselves changed because of his passing. It’s the best Sunday ritual ever invented in the history of the world, and one of the most precious days of my week and now in my life.

It’s grief counseling, Napa Valley, California-style.

We talk about Bill and share the present journey and struggles - like online dating and other sordid adventures.

This night is strictly reserved for the two of us, though there have been a few invitations extended to a couple of her friends. 

We always ‘confer’ about this first because of the sanctity of the night and decide if we think the person is in need of a steak night with us and if we feel able to give them space to join us.

The few of her friends who have joined us have been fed - body and soul.  And it is still reserved for only those most close to us. If you are ever offered an invitation to steak night at my home, please know that we love and care for you deeply.

Because, not only do we feed you a pretty decent Sunday meal and some excellent red wine, we do inevitably talk about grief and loss, which leads those present to also open-up about someone special in their lives who is either battling something hard or whom they have lost. 

And, if you get invited and come to steak night, you can probably expect a good cry. Sometimes due to laughter; sometimes from sadness.

But mostly we talk.

About everything.

A lot of confessions are, and have been, revealed at steak night.

Occasionally, some dancing has occurred.

All in the name of love, the main ingredient.

I was explaining steak night to someone recently and he asked me, “What’s the secret to a perfect steak?”

My answer, “Love.”

“I see, and I think that’s the perfect recipe.  Love is always the key ingredient that makes everything great.”

That’s right, my love. There is nothing more important.