Payback

Finally, a couple days ago, I collected payment for my decisive victory in The Race last month.

Owen showed up with a bag of groceries on Monday night and got right to work.

First, the potatoes. He sliced 'em and diced 'em and spiced 'em and put them in the Vulcan for some slow roasting.

Next, the steaks.

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Owen got New York strips for Bill and for himself. Me? A Porterhouse. A Victory Porterhouse. For the Victor. Prepped with some olive oil, some garlic, some other stuff . . .

. . . and lots of freshy peppah.

Perfect.

There really is nothing quite as wonderful as hanging out in one's own kitchen, drinking wine, watching someone else grind freshy peppah on one's dinner.

.

I'm really going to have to start making more bets.

One steak . . .

Two steak . . .

Three steak, four . . . It's like a really good Dr. Seuss book.

The entire neighborhood was salivating at the aroma emanating from our place.

With apologies to my lovely vegetarian and vegan friends, there is nothing in this world quite like the smell of meat cooking on a grill. Brings out the caveman in me.

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Okay, back inside, back to the Vulcan. Potatoes out.

Green beans done.

Owen plated us up . . .

.

. . . and presented one awesome-looking Victory dinner.

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See? Awesome.

Even though Bill did not participate in The Race, he got a steak in his capacity as official photographer. Poor guy didn't even make it into one photo. And Owen doesn't seem to be smiling in one photo. Hmmmm. How odd . . .

\.

It was a delicious meal . . .

. . . cooked to perfection.
.

And after an excellent dinner like that there is only one thing to do:

Kick Owen's ass in another competition.

I only wish we'd bet another dinner.