The Great Steak Mistake

A few weeks ago (on a Friday) I was in a particularly good mood. I had just received word that I was going to get a contract from a publisher for the book I've been working on for over a year now . . . I was relieved, excited, anxious, etc.

I called home to tell Kara the good news. "We should celebrate by going to dinner tonight," I said with a good amount of passion. "Sounds great, I'm in," Kara responded. I should note here that since about the middle of October, Kara has been craving steak on a regular basis. Angus. Sirloin. N.Y. Strip. Makes no difference.

"We could get steaks!" I added.

Fast forward three hours later . . . I came home from work, sat down on the couch, looked Kara dead in the eye and uttered words I now regret, "Kara--let's just stay home tonight. I'm tired. We can celebrate the book contract later. I know . . . I will make some tomato soup."

A death glare that rivals anything Hitler, Pol Pot, or Mussolini came my direction. Not only was I a) changing date plans (something that I should know by now is a death wish) but b) I was asking my pregnant wife to give up eating steak for c) tomato liquid. The perfect storm began to come together.

Being the perceptive man I am . . . (and feeling the death stare like a 125 degree heat lamp) I immediately said, "Or . . . we'll get steaks. Steak sounds good. I'll get my keys. Grab your coat."

Disaster averted.

Lesson #437: If you promise your pregnant wife the very food she craves, you'd better deliver. Your life is on the line.