Father was on my case as I helped him with Sunday steak dinner, really pissing me off. I was entranced by 60 Minutes' first hidden camera investigation in ages. I only halfway noticed that the steak I had, the steak for which we -- OK, Father -- prepared the salad, I prepared the bread, and I even broke out the wine -- was full of gristle. I'd finally cut off a piece, stick it in my mouth, try and fail to break it down, realize I couldn't eat it, then take it out of my mouth. After the show was over I realized about a quarter of the steak lay to the side of my plate in a pile of chewed-up fat.

The others were finished and cleaning up. When my Grandmother offered me more stuff to put on the steak -- you know, the onions and peppers, what do you call that? -- I agreed giddily. And then, from the kitchen, My Fucking Mother roared out, "NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" What the fuck? I wasn't eating, Mother, I was chewing, and I ate as much as I usually do eating steak, it just took me longer because a quarter of it was inedible gristle. Whatev.