Blake's Blog

3/1/12 - T-bone Steak

One day I was reading through the El Paso Times, and I spotted a sale advertisement from the Sun Harvest Grocery Store. They had T-bone steaks on sale for only $3.99 a pound. Wow! What a great price. My immediate thought was how nice it would be to bring my barbeque grill from home and grill T-bone steaks for the residents of the Mission. Some of them may never have had a nice steak in their whole lives.

I recalled the time that I had taken a trip to the gulf coast and returned with some really fresh red snapper in my cooler. But, I bought a few too many. After eating my fill for two days, I still had three nice snappers left over and I hated the thought of putting them in the freezer. So I packaged up the fish and some spices and took them down to the Mission. We had three workers who had really risen to the top in making the furniture factory work and I wanted to give them a reward. I called each of them and told them to meet me at the kitchen at 6:00 p.m. and to come hungry.

I scaled and seasoned the snappers and put them in the Mission's oven on broil. I gently turned them after ten minutes to leave them slightly browned on both sides and then served them up on big plates to my guests. The smallest snapper was a pound and a half and the largest was right at two pounds. No side dishes were necessary. I remember the sight of the faces of my guests as they dove in. The leader of our shop was Sam Casper. I gave him the largest fish. One of my guests had already finished his and began eyeing Sam's fish.

"That sure looks good" he said, looking at Sam's fish. Sam pulled his plate closer and raised his fork in his fist with the tongs pointed at the table as if to stab any hand which moved too close. "This one is mine. Yours is over there" Sam proclaimed. He had the look of a rabid dog in his eyes. God have mercy on anyone who would have approached his fish at that time. I am certain he would have used his fork to harpoon any approaching hand.

Once they had removed all of the meat their forks would get, they picked up the skeletons and sucked on the bones to remove any last morsel including the little bit of fish juice left on the bone. Then each of them leaned back in their chairs with a look of complete satisfaction on their faces, rubbed their bellies and groaned a bit. A dozen ants would have starved trying to survive on the leftovers.

The experience of watching their absolute enjoyment by feasting on a treat which is never available in the desert southwest was worth whatever I had paid for the fish. I had already experienced the delicate flavor and soft texture of the fresh snapper so I was not tempted to join in on their portion. My satisfaction level was greater just by watching them savor it.

The enjoyment of cooking is the creation of a delight for the senses. But, the pleasure of the creation goes only so far through self-enjoyment. To magnify the pleasure, the chef needs to share the creation and then watch the faces of others enjoying it also. Since I had already experienced perfection on the palate, the only way to enhance my pleasure was to share it with others whom I cared about.

I think the pleasure of sharing a fantastic meal is enhanced even further by sharing it with those who would never have had the capacity to purchase it. Besides, a purchased meal is an entirely different experience. It is participation in a commercial enterprise and the enjoyment of your own success by having the economic ability to purchase the meal. But, when a person receives a meal as an undeserved or unexpected gift the experience is completely different. The recipient knows that the preparer both put money into the gift by purchasing the food and then devoted talent and labor into the preparation and service of the meal. It may be one of the best expressions of Christian love, and the person receiving the meal cannot mistake that motivation behind it.

I think most people coming into the Rescue Mission know that the Mission receives USDA food from the West Texas Food Bank, and they probably think the government provides some funding for food service. The service of a bare-bones meal communicates that someone in government doesn't want me to starve so this is what I get. Or, perhaps the thought is, "This meal is my entitlement as an American citizen and someone is paying you to prepare it for me. The meal doesn't mean you care about me, it just means you are doing your job." Or worse, maybe the person is thinking, "I am a total failure in life, so this meal is what I deserve." On the other hand, the meal that goes above and beyond is an unmistakable communication of Christ's love.

I have often pondered the thought of how much is enough, or, in the reverse, at what point is the meal too nice? After all, the Rescue Mission is not charging anyone for the meal, and, with a very few exceptions, none of our guests are able to pay fair market value for it. Shouldn't our visitors be grateful for what they get? But, there is a huge difference between being thankful for receiving our daily bread and receiving a meal that stimulates the emotion of "Wow, why are you being so nice to me"?

After giving the subject considerable, prayerful thought, I think I have an answer. Jesus told us in Matthew 25 that when we offered a meal to one of the least of his brothers in need, we were offering that meal directly to Jesus. So here is the standard: If we know, with a certainty, that serving the next person walking through the front door of the Rescue Mission is just like serving Jesus himself, and we invite Jesus into the dining room, would we be ashamed of the meal that we have to offer him? Then, at the end of the meal, did our actions make Jesus feel like an honored guest, or does he feel like he has been a burden and you had an obligation to care for him?

Back to the T-bones. I did not feel like I could buy T-bone steaks out of the Mission's budget which was already stretched to the point of praying for divine intervention to pay the regular bills. No, a T-bone purchase had to come from my own pocket. I examined my wallet, the checkbook balance, and thought about the bills that must be paid by the end of the week and concluded that the most I could do would be 50 16-oz steaks. I called Sun Harvest and ordered them up. At first the butcher protested that I was depleting his inventory, but when I told him it was for a special event at the Rescue Mission, he agreed to slice them up.

The next problem, of course, was that we had about 120 people staying at the Mission, not 50. I had an idea. I would use the event to reward people who were trying hard to improve their lives and at the same time show the laggards that more effort on their part would be a good thing. I even went so far as to tell our chef to tone down the regular meal for steak night. I wanted the contrast to be very well apparent. I wanted our guests to make the observation that the people who were always volunteering to help, or those who were earnestly looking for jobs, or those who were going to school to better themselves would get steak, while those who were not putting out the effort to improve themselves or their surroundings got bean soup. I told the chef to serve his meal first and then those invited for steak would eat later. That way, all of the people eating bean soup would see me behind the kitchen stoking the fire for steaks.

Not having performed such an experiment before, my mind raced ahead as to all of the problems I would encounter. I could identify the elect and give them an invitation, but when everyone stormed the pit for a steak, could I remember whom I had invited and whom I had not? I reasoned that the solution was o print tickets. Also, tickets would give me the opportunity to reinforce the message behind the meal. So I went to my computer and prepared a page of tickets--two columns, twelve tickets per page.

                         In appreciation for your hard work
                                  to improve your life,
                          you are invited to a steak dinner
                  with Blake Wednesday evening at 6:00 p.m.
                          You must present this ticket
                               to receive your steak.

I printed up enough pages to cut out 50 tickets. Then, I thought, these tickets would be too easy to put on a copy machine and counterfeit. So I took my blue ink pen and signed my name across the face of each one.

50 tickets; 50 steaks. I set out on my journey to pass them out. The first stop was to the furniture factory where our 100% homeless workforce was crafting products that we would sell to other missions. The next stop was to the men's dormitory where I found the men that I had seen cleaning the bathroom and mopping the floor. They all got tickets.

An announcement came over the loud speaker that we needed help unloading a truck at the back of the Mission. I watched to see who responded to the call for labor and then passed out more tickets.

My next stop was the medical rooms. There I found Sheila. She had been living in a homeless camp and had been attacked by a man with a knife--three deep slashes across the abdomen and another one at the base of the neck. The doctor told her that if the slash on the neck had been 1/8 of an inch deeper, she would no longer have been with us. She had four lines of metal staples holding herself together. The cuts were so fresh that she was still oozing a little fluid. I am sure she would have volunteered to help with the truck if she had been able. She got a ticket just for having the sense to leave the camp and come to the Mission.

On my way out of the Mission, I saw one of our homeless guests hold the door open for a man in a wheelchair to pass. Both of them got tickets.

I inquired with the counselors how many people we had going to classes for their GEDs and wrote their names down on my search pad. I found them all, and each of them got a ticket.

I still had about ten left so I just walked around the Mission watching the people. There were a number of men sitting on the back porch doing nothing and another man was picking up cigarette butts off of the ground and putting them in the trash. He got a ticket.

By five o'clock Monday afternoon all but five of the tickets were gone. I still had a few to pass out Tuesday in case I missed someone who should have a ticket. I wanted to be sure most of the tickets were passed out well before the dinner so that the talk would go around as to who had a ticket and who didn't get one and why.

I fully expected to encounter some people Tuesday morning who hadn't gotten a ticket and wanted one. I had my speech all prepared that the tickets were for people who had been helping out around the Mission. "But, it's not too late to pitch in. If you want to wash dishes in the kitchen, you can have a ticket." The speech went unused as no one came to complain, so I made my rounds again in search of helpful residents and distributed the remaining five tickets.

On Wednesday afternoon I took the truck and trailer home to load up my 300-pound grill and tow it back to the Mission. I started the fire about 4:30 so that the coals would burn down to just the right level and I would be ready to throw on the steaks about 5:45. While the fire was getting started, our chef was sliding 50 Idaho potatoes into the oven; containers were prepared with sour cream, butter, chives and bacon bits; and I started seasoning the steaks.

The procedure was that those with tickets would file through the kitchen, select their potato and prepare it to their liking and then bring their tray to the back porch to select their steak directly off of the grill. I had the fire arranged hotter on the left than on the right so that each guest could select from the more well done steaks on the left to the rare ones on the right. Out of principle, I refused to cook any steak completely well done. As each person approached the grill, I would collect their ticket and then deposit the steak of their choosing on their tray.

Everything was going along very smoothly until Sheila approached the grill. She had her tray in one hand with her potato and her ticket in the other hand. As she walked up to the grill, I reached out for her ticket, and she pulled it back. She looked me straight in the eye and said, "Would you mind if I keep my ticket"? Now that line certainly was not expected. Ok, I thought, I will be watching for you when you come back through for a second steak. "Sure, you can keep it. Which steak would you like? Rare is on this end and well done is over there." She made her selection and moved on with steak and ticket.

Once all of the steaks were served, I had the opportunity to go into the dining room and watch my efforts being enjoyed. The expressions on the faces said it all. The meal was thoroughly satisfying and nothing was left over.

To my amazement, not one person complained that he or she had been left out, and no one asked what needed to be done to be included in the next round. My motivational experiment had been a total failure. To the contrary, those that did not get a steak figured that they didn't deserve one, and they were O.K. with that. My selective invitations had probably been counterproductive by confirming the negative self-esteem of those who already knew themselves to be failures. Next time around, I will find a way to include everybody.

The other surprise of the night was that I did not see Sheila again and the number of tickets and steaks was in perfect balance. I was baffled as to what she had been up to.

About three months went by and I was walking into a chapel service. I was a little late, having plenty of other work to do, and one of the few available seats was next to Sheila. So I sat down just as our guest speaker started his message. He invited our guests to open their Bibles to a particular passage and follow along as he read the scripture. I had not brought my Bible with me so I looked over at Sheila and watched her as she opened her Bible. As she parted the covers the pages fell open to a spot where she had placed a bookmark. It was a small piece of paper inviting her to a steak dinner, and it had my signature across the front of it.

I had to reach down for every bit of composure that I had to avoid crying in the middle of chapel. Even though she could not express it in words, her actions said, "No one has ever done anything this nice for me and I want to hold onto this little piece of paper to remember this day." And I thought she was trying to steal an extra steak. I was so ashamed.

Over a year went by and I was talking with Richard Swartz on the back porch. Richard is one of the most creative people I have ever met. But, his recurring alcoholism kept kicking him back into homelessness. For several years he had worked on making silver rings and pendants with his own unique designs. He wanted to show me his latest creation which he had just finished. It was a silver ring with what looked like various colored stones inlayed in stripes across the top of the ring. He pointed to a red stripe on the top of the ring. "Do you know what this is"?

"No, but it catches the light very well."

"That is a piece of a broken tail light that I found in our parking lot."

He had taken a piece of trash; saw value in it, and filed it down to the perfect shape to fit precisely into the space in the ring. I was impressed.

Then he pointed at an off-white stripe next to the red stripe. "And do you know what this one is"?

"No, I don't."

"That is a piece of the T-bone from the steak that you gave me last year."

Wow. This guy had saved his bone, cleaned it, and, a year later, filed it down to something that he could fit exactly into a small space on a ring and wear it with him always.

I had thought it was a nice meal--and it was. But, the meanings that it conveyed to the homeless people who received it far eclipsed anything that I could have imagined.