The bedroom door opened, and a magnificent morsel of meat came in.  Oh, it was proud, leading the way, head up high and bobbing with every pace.  At first, I thought “rump” with a little thrill, and then perhaps “fillet”, but then I glanced down and saw the majestic swing and sway of the sac that hung below the arched shaft, like a cleansed bone jutting forward.  That’s a tomahawk steak, a ribeye with a good 15 centimetres of intact and uncut “bone”.

I sank to my knees.  This needed to be marinaded – I took its length into my mouth and let it lie there, its juices mingling with what I couldn’t help making as he approached.  Marinades often need an hour to have their full effect, but not this time.  It was already perfectly seasoned, with just the right level of saltiness.  Skilled chefs can bring things forward, but they can also defer, and delay and I wanted more time, so I demurred.  No moving of the tongue, no huffing of the cheeks, just a gentle suction while I kneaded the oysters that were moving and sliding in their smooth, warm bag.

But only for so long, and I had to plan how to do this, and it was obvious I needed to be quick.  A moment of inspiration and I had it, “It’s a cow, girl.” I thought to myself, and of course, it was!  I laid him on the bed.  For the best results the pan has to be smoking hot, and I was smoking hot.  As I steered him into the sizzle, I remembered, four minutes either side – front and back.  I slid up and down, not forgetting to squeeze the meaty muscle.  I turned, basting it with the juices being pressed out – and then, it was done!  I was full - filled as it were.  But for the perfect outcome, the best savour, you must let it rest in its juices for a while.  That is so good! 

And then, there was only the gravy left.  As no one was watching, I lowered my head and licked it up.  Wow!

Is it just me?  Is there anything in life as good as a bit of beef, unless of course, it happens to be “ewe”?