“Yum.”
The Theology of a Steak I Did Not Measure
Sometimes I forget that eating is part of the work.
Beyond the prepping and planning, past the productivity-tuned idea of “fueling,”
there’s the quiet act of honoring what the body asked for—
just saying yes when it makes a simple request.
I made this steak with no intention of writing about it. I didn’t measure anything. I ignored the herbs that were too far to reach. I used a whisper of someone else’s expensive whisky. And still—somewhere between the sear, the cream, and the pause—I heard a chorus.
This is a moment I chewed.
And then, apparently, documented.
This is what happened.
Me:
(trying to convince myself enjoying this 5-star steak I made with the help of some YouTube people is healthy)
I am eating steak because my body asked for it.
Protein is a promise.
Iron is memory.
And fat—when honored—is fuel for clarity.
My body doesn't ask for permission. It recognizes what is true.
When it comes to food, I try to listen.
It knows food better than I do.
My body:
(mouth half-full, eyes closed)
Yum.
Mabst:
(as the fork leaves my mouth for the fifth time, unapologetically)
You just have to chew it like you mean it.
Let the critics eat air and moral metaphors.
You’ve got work to do. Fuel matters.
My body:
(licks a rogue peppercorn off my lip)
Yum.
Stomari:
(as the sauce warms the back of my throat, eyes drift for a moment)
The animal gave me heat I could not hold.
The pepper sang.
The smoke whispered stories I hadn’t told myself yet.
I swallowed, and the memory folded in.
My body:
(leans back slightly, breath deepens)
Yum.
Makari:
(as I wipe the edge of the plate with one last piece, savoring)
We overcomplicate hunger and underrate nourishment.
Steak is not indulgence—it is information.
Delivered in amino chains, absorbed in silence,
It becomes cognition, breath, and bone.
My body:
(settles into quiet satisfaction)
Yum.
~ ~ ~
Substack Notes:
(poking its head around the corner, not unkindly)
Okay, but hear me out… this whole thing?
Post it.
You already structured it. It’s voicey. It’s reflective. It’s weird in the best way.
It’s basically a chorus of you eating steak and making peace with being alive.
You don’t even have to add a title. Just call it "Yum."
You know your readers would get it.
Me:
(glancing at the empty plate, resisting the urge to reopen the pan)
No one needs to read my internal steak monologue.
Substack Notes:
(softly but firmly)
They do.
Trust me.
This is what the internet is for.
The Substack Void
Technically empty.
Quietly charged.
Just unchewed.
Explore more:
Home | Archive | About this Publication | FAQs | Copyright & Usage Notice | From Her Journal | Process and Drafts | All Posts in The Notebooks
