MONDAYS

Today is Sunday. That makes tomorrow Monday.

Monday only matters if ya got a "job".

The ranch hand tried retirement and L-O-V-E-D it. Then ole dumbutt took another "job"? I reckon some folks just can't stand the prosperity of peace, harmony, and no "Monday" (are you paying attention Wayne?)

Your humble scribe will report for duty in the morn and toil in the salt mines of his employer for another day for several reasons. However....it is just a "day" job. The fat boy gets up every pre-dawn week day morn and asks the question, "Ya want to do this another day or what?"

So far its been a "yeah". Let's see what the morrow brings?

White Tails

The ranch hand don't enjoy, look forward to, or in any way take pleasure in "killing" deer. Never have, never will.

The ranch hand absolutely "dotes" on all the other stuff. Looking for tracks, finding their droppings, spying the bark rubbed off a tree by antlers, or better yet....seeing a deer in the wild is special.

It's about $75 per month for dried corn to feed the Tin Star venison herd, but the "special" moments are priceless.

Guns and ammo are a part of it in that...well hell....I like touching them, shooting them, owning them??? Can't explain, and don't really care why....just a "man" thing I guess???

The best part is the preparation for the hunt. The old fat boy spent the balance of this day fabricating and welding together a steel stand to put a hunting blind atop down at the pond. Construction of the hunting blind will be another pleasurable day.

Thank you, my Lord and Savior, for another great day on the Tin Star and for the pleasures of Texas hill country white tail deer.

Hamburger Heaven

The August 2009 issue of Texas Monthly Magazine included an article created by multiple contributors entitled, "The 50 Greatest Hamburgers in Texas" (volume 37, issue 8).

What could be more iconic than a GIANT juicy burger that oozes grease along the palms, down the arms and drips from the elbows? Onions that fill your senses, a bit of pickle for a zing, and lettuce for crunch....just the thought makes my tongue beat my tonsils unmercifully! As a food indigenous to Texans everywhere, it's only fittin' a tribute should grease (er...grace) this blog page (with a bale of napkins on the side to assuage the overflow of salivary response)?

The ranch hand previously blogged about his first ever "cafe" meal. In our family, ya got to teenage afore even dreamin' of eating outside kinfolks tables. A Wright City boy's first "store bought" meal was an occasion.

Danny's grandmother worked at the White Swan beer joint/cafe in Kilgore and we went to visit. While we was dawdlin', D's Grandma slapped a burger on the grill. I have only a vague memory of an ever hungry growing boy slatherin' that puppy down. More'n likely, it hit the peak of my burgerdom at the time (12-13 year old). OK, I don't really remember how it tastes, but I do recall the onion still had the brown skin on it (haven't seen that trick since?).

I reckon that first "bait" started a life long quest to find "great" hamburgers.

Since settin' down roots at Gabriel Mills, the ranch hand/bride regularly trek the four mile route to the Andice Store for the 1/2 pound extraordinaire (the size of a hubcap and "squirts" grease ever direction when ya chomp). This Andician delight is a thing of beauty embodying freshness, a taste explosion, and decadence that only evolves with knowledge your arteries clog with the mere thought of ingesting this carnivore feast.

Numero #2 on the Texas Monthly list is the Counter Cafe (Austin). The ambiance includes a narrow hallway for dining and two chairs per (tiny) table lined up adjacent to the bar stools. The "feature" is a flawless bit of superb quality "cow" flirting with the sweetest bun ever tasted by this semi-edumacated male. Chunk in bermuda onion, obviously gardened ripened tomato, enough mustard to permanently color fingernails, and ya got a pretty decent eat that made a nice lunch hour last week.

Florence, Texas is the "rural" capital of Tin Star country and includes the ancient Rattlesnake Bar/Cafe. Locals talk bout Saturday night ventures there 40 - 50 years ago. Think hardwood floor, bar older than Methuselah, barmaids (with most teeth intact), and enough dust in the parking lot to choke a bedouin.

Today the owner averred in the most sincere tones that "they" was famous for their burger. We bit. "They" was wrong. Dry, burnt, and tasteless ain't in the dictionary under "famous"? (Guess ya gotta kiss a few pigs on the road to burger love?)

However, Friday the ranch hand/bride traveled the distant hill county to Fredericksburg. Alamo Springs Cafe is 10 miles south of F-burg on the Old San Antonio Road. The trip alone is worth the time while passing vineyards, flowing creeks (during a time of drought no less), and all manner of ancient farm structures.

Turn left on Alamo Springs Road and immediately exit into the white powder dust of the cafe parking lot. The decrepit cafe is a throwback to the depression era of the 30's, but the burger justified its hype as "ample, rich, and downright carnal " (Number Three on the Tx Monthly list). After a half dozen napkins (JUICY), and much lip smackin', me and the child bride melted into dreamy eyed reverence while savoring the last of the sweetest fried onion rings ever ingested by country folk.

Truth is..... I can't wait til tomorrow cause an even better burger may be just one country culinary adventure away?????

Kuntry Dumass Kookin'

Ever notice how a TV cook host breezes thru a complicated recipe in an hour? Well, the ole ranch hand is here to tell you it's smoke, mirrors and a passel of off-stage help.

Yours truly mounted the cook mule yesterday and "charged" headlong into a Shrimp, Corn, and Tomato Stew. My sorry butt whacked on celery, onion, bell pepper, tomatoes, fingers and such until the chop board dang near cratered. Meticulous measurement of spices, peeling and de-veining of shrimp, and (dirtyin' ever damn pan and bowl in the kitchen) enroute to a culinary masterpiece didn't take no more than FOUR hours?????????

There was a recipe part that said, "add shrimp stock". Holy cow, buildin' that juice was an ordeal in itself (more veggie choppin', more spice measurin', more boil/reduce/clabber the liquid?????) And only took bout an hour and a half to prepare/cook that "ingredient"????

Finally got all slap dabbed together and guess what: didn't know til yesterday that livin' on the East Texas/Louisiana border musta siphoned some coonass blood into the arteries thru them swamp skeeters.

That's right sports fans, that mess o' ranch hand creole cuisine that got whupped up would make a hawg hug a hound on Sunday and come back for seconds all week!

Stay tuned for the next exciting episode of kuntry dumass kookin'.

Wright City Gravy

During the 17th century, roux was introduced by the French as a thickener (equal amounts of flour and butter, oil, or bacon fat cooked for a short time)

In French cuisine, roux is white, blonde or brown, depending upon the sauce it is to be used in. Créole roux is basically the same, but because it is cooked longer, its color begins where French roux ends. Roux is used in Cajun cuisine for flavor rather than for thickening as it displays a rich, deep nutty flavor. It is said to be the secret ingredient in Cajun food.

Given this almost mystical aura of a substance spoken of as difficult to do well, the ranch hand made his first "roux" today with a bit of trepidation.

Well hell, Wright City milk gravy is harder to do right? The old fat boy just put two stick of butter in a pan, melted them puppies, and slowly whisked in a cup of flour. Keep "whisking" like a bandit til the roux turns the magic "color" and smells larupin' good and ya be done.

Then all that remained was to spend the next four hours hackin' and choppin' on veggies, measurin' spices, makin' "stock", and peeling/deveining shrimp to prepare to cook the coup de gras (cajun word for work your butt off for half a day to cook according to the recipe)?

More on the next blog about the actual "dish" as too tired from cooking that sucka to actually relive it at the moment????

Arcadian Accolades

The jacket of a Louisiana cookbook the ole ranch hand recently purchased describes Cajun country as "an untamed region teeming with snakes, alligators, and snapping turtles, with sausage and cracklins sold at every gas station." The author of Real Cajun (Donald Link, 2009) describes his home as a tough land that funnels its spirit into the local cuisine.

Tomorrow, your humble scribe will embark upon a culinary journey thru this tome beginning with the "shrimp, corn, and tomato stew" recipe. Over an unknown period of time, the ole fat boy has intentions of sashaying a bit with all within the venerable pages ranging from gumbo to etouffees to bourbon-soaked bread puddin'.

Yeah, there might be blog or two in this given the historical inspiration of swamps, smokehouses, festivals and funerals proliferated in Arcadia USA.

(Did I mention this may not be an economical venture?)

Leafed thru my adventure map this morn and made a list of coonass spices brother Link named therein. Oozled to the grocery store and camped out on the "spice" aisle whilst gitten my trifocals aimed for bay leaves, basil, cayenne, oregano, and so forth.

$109 later, my befuddled butt walked out of that store hopin' my dear departed Mom never learned I blew that much in HEB without actually buying any groceries???

Stay tuned sports fans because even the ranch hand don't know how this one is going to turn out?

Hay Haulin'

Aunt B reminded me of "hay hauling" today.

If a body ain't never ventured into that pertickular economic scheme before....don't.

When the ranch hand was near bout 14 year old, the onliest jobs in Wright City and thereabouts was taken by the family men. Ignorant piss ants like me had to scrabble like a tall dawg to pick up a "big nickel" (what Dad called a 50 cent piece).

Only thing available in the summer was hay haulin'.

Hay haulin' must be the fav-rite invention of the devil as it is a misery of heat, humidity, GRASS BURRS, dust, and just plain "whip yur butt" work.

Being an astute entremanure of finance, your humble scribe's first hay haulin' was with some genuine backwoods retard toothless folks who declared they was givin' ONE PENNY per bale to move said hay from the field and stack it in the barn. Don't mean a cent per person. Me, Jay, and Allen had to "share" the profit at 1/3 cent per bale.

Seeing how we weren't no math geniuses, took us bout 1,000 bales to figger out we wuz on a path to an early grave with no dinero along the way?

Fact is, the most I ever remember was a quarter per bale in the late 70's? Ole pancho would motor by to visit Dad when returning from Tyler to his East TX duty station and find mi padre working alone in a hay field trying to financially "survive". Being a good son (or a 24 carat dumass) yours truly would pull off the "uniform", pull on a pair of Dad's overalls, and "throw" hay bales til dark trying to help him survive.

Cramps???? Ya don't know what muscle cramps are until you dehydrate in a hay field and knot up so bad you can't breath?

Dust??? If ya put a bandana over your mouth as a "filter", it's surface will quickly turn to mud?

Exhaustion???? Forget it, don't have the words to describe it???

I reckon folks that have hauled hay in their early years have a special bond cause we know how we suffered for so little to simply try to survive?

And we did.

Grocery Shopping

Mom used to grocery shop in Tyler. I'm thinking it was a very stressful thing for her as she would make a list, stick to it, and carefully add the cost as she went from store to store to get the "specials". Dad would give her a dollar amount and no amount of need would allow exceeding that cash allowance.

As yonkers, we would go with Mom, but I don't remember (and hope we didn't) rag on her to buy kid stuff as she toiled to buy sustenance for her brood?

Today your ranch hand motored to Leander to "grocery shop". Mom would have been overwhelmed by the sheer size of the store, the incredible selection, and just the number of shoppers?

Economics allow us to buy "nice to have" in addition to "have to have" stuff, but there is still the memory of scrabbling to manage feeding a family with the scarce dollars available.

I reckon that feeling shall always be?

Cracker Box

Around 1984, the ole ranch hand went to Montgomery Ward and purchase a "cracker box" welding machine. Dreaming of magnificent projects (bar b que smokers, firewood racks, etc.), the neophyte hauled his new treasure to Wright City for bragging rights with Dad.

Dad being Dad, he immediately cabbaged onto that varmit, hard wired it in his back yard, and commenced to do his "stuff" with it. Not being one to detract from Dad's ambiance, the device (for all relevant purposes) became his. Yours truly continued over the years to cogitate welding scenarios unfulfilled.

Near bout four years ago your slow witted scribe found a "bargain" on Craig's List for a excellente 220 rod burner. Installed that puppy in the Tin Star barn and the rest is history.

Don't know why (other than genetic propensities inherited from Dad), but the ranch hand relaxes and take superb pleasure in the "art" (in my case "daubing") of welding steel to steel. There is pleasure in the sizzle of the welding rod arcing to the work piece. There is solace in the finished product. But most of all, there is a connection to a simpler life where a man takes raw materials and crafts something useful with his hands.

The hours pass without notice in this simple chore and for that I am grateful.