Waking Nightmare
Over the course of my life, I’ve become a huge fan of the horror genre. However, scary movies haunted my daily life as a child.
The first horror movie I remember watching was A Nightmare on Elm Street. I was only seven years old, and not in any way prepared for the crippling anxiety it would bestow on my youthful mind. My brother, Jon, and I were channel surfing in the middle of a Saturday, and the public broadcast edit of the classic slasher caught Jon’s attention. My preference would have been Judge Judy, but he had the remote, and anything I said in protest would be overruled. He assured me this was a fine movie, in the same vein as Aladdin and Toy Story. Persuaded by his arguments, I agreed to watch the abominable daydream. I don’t know if Jon had ulterior motives, but even if he did, I don’t think any of them were to cause mental anguish. I hope not. Jon?
Freddy’s first appearance in the movie made me sick to my stomach (that or my Pop-tart-only diet). His melted face and lack of eyebrows were far more real than anything I’d seen on the cover of an RL Stine book. Despite my fear and case of bubble guts, I pushed through and watched the subsequent eighty minutes while on the verge of tears. I tried to distract myself, but realized Freddy likes to attack daydreamers. The movie began to feel like a documentary, and I hoped my white belt in Kempo karate would earn me some protection when I would inevitably become the next victim.
For the next few months, I slept with a nightlight on, as if that could keep Freddy from killing me in my dreams. When I realized I needed more bedroom “defense,” I turned my closet light on too, but then it was too bright for me to sleep. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t get any rest, I was having nightmares, and I developed a sense of dread that led to constant paranoia. I was looking over my shoulder as if I was even old enough to owe money to an unsavory person. Anytime I went to the bathroom, I would pull the shower curtain back or check the vanity drawers to see if there were tiny murderous “debt collectors” hiding in there waiting to collect. Did I mention I was only seven years old? At that age, it seemed entirely possible that death could be hiding around every corner, waiting to drag my sinful but childlike soul to the grave.
Eventually my fear of Freddy dissipated, but my imagination started to play up other terrors. Anything could be interpreted as evil. Creaks in my house were meandering zombies, a hat left in the wrong place was the work of a vengeful spirit, and my sister was actually an alien/cyborg replacement that could vaporize my brain with her mind. Even Halloween, known for being a lighthearted and not very scary night, was legitimately terrifying. I stayed out of my friend’s haunted basement during the Monster Mash, because I thought the other kids were actually the creatures they dressed up as. It was embarrassing to stand alone in the garage as everyone else was enjoying their “innocent scares,” but for me, there was nothing innocent about it. I worried they would run up from the basement and devour me like a horde of zombies. When I realized my buddy dressed as Frankenstein had rubber bolts in his neck instead of real ones, I relaxed a bit. Maybe a bit too much.
The next time I watched a horror movie, I was in seventh grade, and almost twice my age from the Nightmare on Elm Street incident. I was sleeping over at my friend Jordan’s house, and we spent most of our time playing video games. Pre-teens playing video games? Give this guy a Pulitzer. Jordan had a Playstation 2 in his room, which was the coolest thing ever considering I had a supervised 30 minutes to play a Game Boy Color. Comparing an unsupervised, M-rated game sesh in your room to Big Brother’s GBC is like comparing a Ferrari to the 2002 Honda Accord whose transmission I just rebuilt for the second time. Jordan and I spent a few hours terrorizing locals in Grand Theft Auto: Vice City, until Jordan’s older sister, Kelly, invited us to watch a movie with her and one of her friends. Normally, I avoided my friends’ siblings like they were cootie-infected demons, but I thought Kelly was beautiful. I jumped (literally) at the chance to hang out with them, without even asking what movie they were going to watch. I thought, “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Jordan and I went to Kelly’s room (TVs in every bedroom? Is this Bill Gates’ house?), where she started up the DVD player. When the title screen popped up, I realized I had been a far-too-eager beaver. The selection screen showed a creepy whitefaced doll with red targets on his cheeks, riding a tricycle because I guess murder dolls can’t balance on two wheels? I of course instantly recognized Saw from its grotesque marketing, and promptly experienced the first of many (thankfully) imperceptible panic attacks. What I’d read on Myspace was that Saw was supposed to be one of the goriest, scariest movies ever made. I remember seeing it on the cinema marquee in town, and vowing to avoid it at all costs. Just a few months later, here I was, faced with a difficult choice: hide my terror while hanging out with a pretty girl, or uphold a wimpy vow and deal with a lifetime of embarrassment?
A smarter person would have found a smooth way out. I could have easily told them I had already seen the movie! But in the moment, I didn’t see any other options. I buried my feelings, put a big fake smile on my face, and settled in to repeat the Nightmare on Elm Street incident all over again. Here comes General Malaise 2: Electric Boogaloo. I was already having issues within the first few minutes: the opening scene featured a dead man surrounded by blood and guts, sprawled on a super dirty bathroom floor. Grody. Thirty minutes later, the main characters were still stuck, and I realized this would be it for the entire movie. I hoped that the consistent setting would allow me to acclimate like trying to swim in the ocean, but Saw was more like a Polar Plunge I wanted to sprint away from. I felt like the torture from the movie was actually happening to me. Even Imax couldn’t touch this level of immersive cinema. Kelly had given me a blanket at the start of the movie, and I tried to seem goofy as I “jokingly” hid underneath it. I was actually keeping a panic attack at bay. I used this strategy on and off for the entirety of the movie, until it lost any semblance of being a joke. I watched the finale, where funny Robin Hood cut through the raw meat in his leg, while cowering under the blanket, and found myself at least somewhat relieved when it was over. My dreams of impressing Kelly were long gone, but I hoped I could at least salvage a decent night’s sleep.
I would have settled for laying awake in comfort. As if the movie wasn’t terrifying enough, Jordan’s house was in the historic area of town. If my little hometown had a Haunted Tour, this street would be on it. This was my first time spending the night, and I hadn’t even seen the whole house to know what I was dealing with. On most sleepovers, I would put together a background noise profile in the day to help anticipate the nighttime sounds to expect. Jordan’s house made all kinds of unsettling sounds, each indicating another monster that could haul me away to a torture dungeon. The place was huge, and whether it was true or not, there were rumors that it had been used as part of the underground railroad. That wasn’t so scary in and of itself, but there were also rumors that someone had found human remains in the hidden basement. Great, the torture chamber is right here. I don’t know if any of this is actually true, but in my twelve year old brain, it may as well have been written in stone or at least on Wikipedia. I didn’t sleep at all that night, tossing and turning with every creaking of wood or rustle of wind. I think I nodded off for about an hour, but I had nightmares of ghosts coming down seemingly endless hallways to eat my soul.
The next morning, Jordan’s mom made us pancakes, which I ate while staring blankly at nothing in particular. Shortly after, my mom picked me up and we headed home. I couldn’t wait to hop on the couch and catch up on the sleep I had missed the night before. Mom could see I wasn’t well rested, and asked how everything went. In the safety of our car, I told her everything about watching Saw (except for my one-night crush on Kelly), having nightmares in the haunted house, and my subsequent exhaustion. She was a little upset, more at the situation than anyone in particular, and told me I shouldn’t hang out over at Jordan’s house for a while. Uh, yeah mom, no argument there. I already decided I didn’t want to get killed by a ghost.
Anyways, here’s my recipe for steak.
Ideally for the Saw comparison to make sense, I would be using a T-bone steak. However, I tucked under the blanket so quickly during the finale, I never saw bone. That’s karma telling me to think before I blindly agree to a late night movie in a haunted house. I learned a little bit of everything that night, but mostly how annoying it is to be afraid all the time. Instead of being afraid, put some steak in your face. Steak your face. Steak it. Keep steaking it...
2x10oz Ribeyes
1½ Tbsp Salt
2 Tbsp Butter
3 Sprigs Rosemary
Ground Black Pepper
Equipment:
You need a cast iron pan. You need a cast iron pan. Do I sound like a broken cast iron pan? Replace me. You need a- Ok, a cast iron pan will help, but you can use a nonstick pan of any kind. Oil up your new cast iron pan, and steak it. You’ll be glad you stopped reading this.
Cast Iron/Nonstick Pan
Tongs
Medium Sized Container
Active Prep total: 15 minutes
Clean Up: 10 minutes
Time to experience one of the most redemptive meals of my life. We are using the near-holy experience of a delicious meat hunk to fight back against years of molten-faced-nightmare anxiety. These bold flavors will inspire you to be bold. You can constantly worry about nothing, or you can let your mind get distracted by the enjoyable moment right now. What better way to bring you to the present than a slab of meat. And your dreams for a better world. You are a true American hero.
Instructions:
0. A zeroth (<whatisthat) instruction? That’s right, you have to salt the steak in advance. This allows some fancy french science to happen, making your steak into a better steak. Cover each side of your 2X10oz Ribeyes in salt. Place them in your medium container, and stick in the fridge for 24 hours. It may be hard to delay your gratification, but it makes the final product that much better. If you can’t wait 24 hours, simply salt and pepper right before applying heat to your meat. Heat meat. Hot mot. Nope, that doesn’t work. Salting in advance will.
Set your (brand new) Cast Iron Pan on high heat for 3 minutes. I had mine set two clicks down from maximum heat, which doesn’t mean you shouldn’t put in maximum effort. Add black pepper to your steak. No one wants a pepperless steak. When the pan is hotter than hell, place both steaks on. You should hear it hit the pan with a romantic sizzle, and that means all is right in the world.
Leave them cooking without moving them for one minute, then flip. The secret here is to develop a good crust, while also cooking the steak evenly. This dance is the key to balance in life itself, and to keep the steak medium rare. But primarily for life balance.
Continue to flip once every sixty seconds. When you are about 4-5 minutes in, add in your 2 Tbsp Butter and 3 Sprigs Rosemary, and keep flipping. Remove the steaks after another 3 minutes, and lay delicately on a plate. Admire the beautiful bronze glow.
Well, what do you know. All that fear and anxiety led to this delicious steak. Let those memories of fear, dashed expectations, and sleepless nights melt away in the delicious intensity of red meat. The hot, buttery, salty experience is a warm, cozy blanket on a cold winter night. The steak’s iron is now flowing through your blood, protecting you from ghosts. The hugs-all-over feeling of safety will turn your focus away from the negative, and into the positive. Things will get better. Don’t be so afraid of nothing. Maybe next time you watch Saw, you’ll make it to the bone.
Happy Halloween.
