Summer is about to be upon us and charcoal grills like ours will be in use throughout the countryside. People will gather around those black, steel grills like our caveman ancestors did around the fire outside their cave. They were probably frying mastodon or sabre tooth tiger, but we're much more refined now-a-days and generally cook a part of some critter that was raised in a confinement pen. Usually one of those parts is a steak.

We didn't do much charcoal grilling back in my youth, out there seven miles east of Hinton, Iowa. Our beef was served well-done and not a hint of pink meat would ever be detected. My mother pounded the smithereens out of a round steak with one of those hammers with the teeth protruding from its face. When fully ready for the pan, the steak looked more like a limp piece of pie dough. But, we ate it and relished it and called it a steak.

My first contact with a real steak came at the farm home of my Uncle Frank. Uncle Frank raised fat cattle, and they lived up to their name. Angus or Herefords that usually weighed in at about 1,200 pounds when sent to market. This was called "marbled steak." Veins of fat ran through each piece of steak to the point where it was almost impossible to burn it.

Uncle Frank never over-cooked such a delicate piece of meat. He spoke to it as it simmered on the grill like he was speaking to a woman he was wooing. To over-cook such a chunk of meat would have been sacrilegious to Uncle Frank. He cooked his steak rare and he taught me how to eat it. I own him big time.

But, there was one steak I remember above all others. It stands out in my mind as the best steak I've ever eaten or probably will ever eat.

It came one snowy, winter day on the Missouri River bottom lands, south of Sioux City. A group of coyote hunters, including me, had chased coyotes with our trail hounds from daylight until dark. Nothing much to show for the hunt except lots of spent rifle shells and aching legs.

It was at the close of the day when Uncle Frank directed us back to his hunting shack, not far from the flowing Missouri. He had made a short trip to a meat market in Sergeant Bluff and purchased a big T-bone steak for each of the hunters. The steaks were 2-inches thick and fully marbled. After a fire was brought to heat in the cast iron cook stove, Uncle Frank proceeded to toss the steaks on the stove top fry pan.

My stomach was scratching my backbone as I sat there waiting for a steak to be place on my plate, graced only by bread and butter. Once there and in my mouth, it was simply put, the best steak I've ever eaten or ever will have. Succulent beyond description and with only salt and pepper to taste.

Our trailhounds lay beside the table, exhausted from the day's chase, but they livened up when we tossed them one of the T-bones. It was a good steak for them as well, I think.

So, as our summer comes upon us and I fire up the grill in anticipation of flopping a big steak on top and waiting for mealtime, I remember that cold January day so long ago on the Missouri River flats, a T-bone steak, trail hounds and Uncle Frank at the stove.

They just don't make steak any better than that.

See you next time. Okay?