Friday Night Bites

When I was working full time, Friday nights were the night that my husband and I inevitably went out to dinner. Even if I cooked every other meal at home during the week, we looked forward to celebrating the end of the work week by eating dinner someplace where I didn’t have to cook and he didn’t have to wash dishes.

I don’t think this is particularly uncommon. I think many families – especially families where both adults work outside the home – dine out on Friday night. I can tell by the number of often-naughty children that are present at our neighborhood Italian restaurant on Friday nights. The parents, fortified by a glass of red wine or a cold bottle of beer, frantically attempt to keep their little peanuts busy until the pizza and garlic knots blessedly appear at the table.

Growing up, my family didn’t go out for dinner on Friday night. There were probably a variety of reasons for this, but being Catholic was not the least among the reasons. Until the mid-1960s (upon the conclusion of the second Vatican Council) American Catholics were not allowed to eat meat on Fridays. Even after 1965, you couldn’t eat meat on Fridays during Lent. And what was the point of going out to dinner if you couldn’t eat a steak or fried chicken? Or so my father thought.

Nowadays eating seafood is a pleasure. Salmon on a cedar plank, or grilled tilapia with lime juice, or steamed mussels are a yummy treat. But in Nebraska in the 50s, there was no fresh salmon or mussels, and who had ever heard of tilapia? Instead, my mother made salmon loaf out of saltines and canned salmon, or opened up a package of frozen fish sticks, or made the predictable tuna noodle casserole every Friday night.

But here’s the kicker: On Friday nights, near midnight, my mom would heat up her best cast-iron skillet and make my dad a fried t-bone steak. Nearly every Saturday morning at about 12:02, my dad was munching on a sizzling hot steak covered in A-1. Even the Pope couldn’t point any fingers.

Now that I’m retired, I no longer have a desire to eat dinner out on Friday nights. Restaurants are too busy and noisy. Instead, nearly every Friday I get out my best cast-iron skillet and fry my husband and I a yummy steak, ala mama-in-the-50s. Maybe not a t-bone, but more likely a New York strip or a boneless rib-eye. While I like to gnaw on a bone, I think boneless works better in a fry pan. There is something about a steak that is heavily seasoned with salt and pepper and then fried at a very high temperature until it’s crusty on the outside and pink on the inside. I serve it with a salad covered in homemade bleu cheese dressing and vinaigrette, pour a glass of red wine, and call it a feast.