When the writers walked

Tucked inside the reindeer-themed Christmas card was a coupon announcing the imminent arrival of Top-Quality Beef From America’s Heartland. My parents apparently assumed the writers strike would reduce me to poverty and eventually exhaust my tolerance for pasta seasoned with fennel from the local weed lot.

Come Jan. 3, a shrink-wrapped, Styrofoam cooler arrived on my doorstep. For a moment, I wondered if a human organ had been misdelivered to my Silver Lake apartment while the “Shortbus” DVD from Netflix ended up at Cedars-Sinai. Then I noticed a sticker on the parcel: “Extremely Perishable! Omaha Steaks!” Ah yes, I recalled, parental love in the form of vacuum-sealed meat. I chipped the permafrost out of my freezer and told myself I would save the best cuts for a special occasion.

A show I worked on this past season happened to be nominated for a Golden Globe. The night of the (canceled) awards ceremony, I lighted the grill, skewered some vegetables and clicked to E! online. It took 20 minutes to prepare the meal. It took slightly longer for the media to announce all the night’s winners, of which we were one. The filet mignons were delicious.

The strike is over now, and I can finally look for my next assignment. It may take a while, but I’m not worried. I’ve got two New York strips in the freezer.