John C.
Yelp
I love my dad.
Yeah, that's loved in the past tense. But I still love him, cause his memory will live on with me for a long time. I got every bit of my goofball persona from him. I even threatened to crack one of his dirty jokes at the luncheon after his funeral, but I figured the joke police in the sky were watching scornfully.
Dad was way more successful than I'll ever be. From the depression ravaged streets of industrial Indiana, he rose to be an airborne WW2 hero, a football champ, a loving husband and father of three, a not too shabby bowler, a terrible but avid golfer, and a hard working insurance adjuster who would go on to wear the corporate crown in Big Chi-Cah-Go.
And he made a mean steak.
Every Saturday nite was steak in our household, cause you could do that then without committing high financial crimes on Wall Street. Tenderized with Kitchen Bouquet, seared to perfection on the Sears gas grill in the back yard, and served with baked potatoes, fresh corn on the cob, sauteed mushrooms, and English muffins for dipping in the steak juice.
So when I want that steak - that Mr. C Steak that Dad use to carve off bits of for the dog before slapping it on the grill - I head to McKinnon's Meat Market in Davis Square. A butcher shop from the days when men were men, and beef was what's for dinner. If it moos, clucks, oinks, gobbles, or whatever, they've got it here, fresh and cheap. Delmonicos, rib eyes, Porterhouses, steak tips, they've got 'em all, red and marbley, and ready to go for under $10/lb. And chicken tenders at $1.99/lb or boneless center cut pork chops at $2.99 make for a cheap and tasty stovetop concoction with your favorite marinade.
Veggies and stuff - ehh, if you need 'em, they've got 'em, but that's what farmers markets are for.
Okay, there's those allegations in the news about bleaching the chicken. Yah. I don't smell any bleach. And I know what bleach smells like. It smells like the pool at Hell High School, Indiana, with Bernie Whip Krackenstein the evil gym overlord conducting first period cryogenic chemical experiments on pimply teenage boys.
(No, I did not inherit my Dad's love for sports)
So put on your parking spot vulching goggles, head to Davis and check out McKinnon's the next time you want to get in touch with your inner carnivore. I did this afternoon, and those steaks brought back memories from days I keep forgetting to remember. Here's to you, Dad. I looseneth my belt and belcheth in your honor.