SIMPLE PLEASURE

Yesterday I put 350 pounds of additional corn in my TSR deer feeders. I also put out a couple of protein blocks for the nutritional advantage of my "pet" deer.

A few days ago I blogged about the pleasure of the "process" of deer hunting. I reckon I am in that same vein as I truly enjoy the "process" of venison season.

I have hunted on the ranch for four seasons. I have taken one shot that harvested a nine point buck to display on my office wall. I have enjoyed the voyeur perspective of watching hundreds of deer traversing my special paradise as I gave no thought of bustin' the primer on a shell.

I humbly acknowledge that I have no words for the simplistic joy of the "process" of deer "hunting".

I simply aver that I find it soul satisfying, basic to the nature of man, and a pleasure that might rival any other for its fortitude to my sense of well being.

TSR POSSE

Last month I boasted of moving the location for our humble ranch abode for the (SEVENTH) last time prior to starting the building process.

Loyal fan(s), I must report that yesterday we moved that sucka again?????

We are now in the EIGHTH iteration of slab movement in that it will be 12 feet to the North of our last report in July.

I gotta git my butt in gear and pour some concrete or this house will be wore out from fidgetin' before we can move in?

Stay tuned for more excitin' progress reports of the Tin Star Ranch bunk house and the continuing adventure of the TSR posse.

ALMS

The silence is deafening.

I issued a heart felt, soul sobbing, cry in the cyberspacial darkness for pinto bean prestidigitation. I have heard exactly nothing?

This is serious. One's life long legacy can be many things, negative and positive. What more noble history could one leave to their heirs than the olympic GOLD for bean cookin'?

If you feel moved, if you are charitable, if you are gaseously inclined, help the ole ranch hand to consistently proffer melodious fruit of the pinto variety in a manner that makes one's tongue beat their tonsils in anticipation of culinary glory.

ALMS FOR YOUR RECIPES!

TATER PLANTING

OK, I put my reputation on the line for my cornbread. Now I'm gonna do the pinto bean thing. Pretty courageous, huh?

Yeah, I know, you think you have the best "red" bean culinary style. Naw, this will blow you outta the water.

1. Put yore dried pintos in a pot with water and soak til they don't need soakin' no mo'.

2 Pour off that nasty "soaking" water (too much electrolytes, free radicals, and "stuff")

3. Put fresh water on them hydrated beans. (No, not that dang bottled stuff, just plain old tap water)

4. Dice some extra sweet onion (Noonday spring onions would be delicious)

5. Salt and pepper to taste.

6. Sliver some salt pork in that mess 'o blessed manna (black peppered maple syrup bacon would "do" as well)

7. Here is where we can get creative: add beer, salsa, rotel, garlic, jalapeno, or tomato, you choose

8. Cook "it" til done.

Sound too simple to be true? IT IS.

Some folks (my mom, grandmother, mother-in-law) can do this and it beats ice cream. Some days I do it right and it is great. Some days I do it and it is just OK (OK being unacceptable for anyone from Wright City who is a bean cooker). Where is the magic???

I know, you plant a tater and you get a tater. I start out being a non-cook and I end up being a maker of mediocre?

Now hard sayin' not knowin', but I always figgered there was more ways to choke a dawg than feed him peanut butter. If any of my thousands of loyal readers (I meant to address the one lonely soul) has a foolproof recipe for such a simple task, let me know (seasoning, cooking time, all tidbits appreciated?)(Yeah, I feel retarded being from WC and not being an accomplished red bean cooker?).

MODESTY

Can anyone imagine a texture, taste, concept, visual, or aroma more pleasurable than cornbread?

It is at once sustenance, soul satisfying salivary joy, and proof of life.

Did I mention that I make it better than anyone on planet earth????

Yeah I know, there are pretenders to the "throne". There are fools who include (ugh) sugar in the recipe. There are sycophants who think it is not complete without the receding flow of melting butter (gotta hide the taste o' your corn pone?)(I seen one miscreant soul put grape jelly on it???).

I AIN'T GONNA TELL YA'LL NO SECRETS. END OF STORY. DONE DEAL (but, I may share a hint or two of preparing the finest confection one might imagine)

1. Take out yo' mama's 50 year old black iron skillet (lovingly seasoned since Moby Dick was a minner). (here is some the hint part: wash that sucka, but never, NEVER dry it with a rag. Put it on the fire and heat it to evaporate the moisture and while still HOT, lovingly slather some vegetable oil, bacon grease, or WD40 in the pores). Aint got no FIFTY YEAR OLD SKILLET? (quit reading and go sit in the corner and bawl your regretful eyes out I guess?)

2. One cup of SIFTED flour, one cup of corn meal, one (how much easier could "one" of ever thing be???) egg, a pinch of baking soda, a pinch of salt (NO DAMMIT, DON'T PUT SUGAR IN IT OR YUR ARM WILL FALL OFF AND THE CORN BREAD WILL STINK!) and enuff BUTTERMILK, BUTTERMILK, BUTTERMILK (put any other kind of milk in it and I will make yur arm fall off!@) to make the mix perfect.

3. Put yur oven on 450 degrees fair-n-height (real hot or whatever you want, just watch the stuff)

4. Cook near bout 15 minutes, it could be 25 minutes (WATCH the potion because variables make time relevant to the importance of the occasion)(if you is trying to impress someone with your "pone", the spirits will conspire to "mess it up")

5. Five is most important: JUST SURRENDER BECAUSE YOU CAN NEVER BEAT THE ranch hand AT CORN BREAD SO JUS' QUIT YUR TRYIN". I AM THE CHAMPEEN AND ALWAYS WILL BE!

(should have told ya'll I am eternally modest)

COMFORT FOOD

I'm not sure if I've written bout this afore, but it's my dang blog so I'll repeat myself as often as alzheimer facilitates.

My Dad always had a natural gas cook stove. Older models had a "pilot light". The pilot light was a small flame that burned all the time to ignite the stove top burners. The metal part of the stove top over the flame stayed warm at all times.

Dad also had an old aluminum percolator coffee pot. You know, the kind that had a clear hollow glass ball in the lid where you could see the coffee "perking" up and down. The guts of that java machine included a metal basket with small holes that allowed you to place ground coffee where heated water could flow over and through to flavor your morning pick-me-up.

Now to the point of all this scintillating information. Dad cooked bacon darn near every morning (before daylight). After the browned pork belly slabs were extracted, Dad would lift the lid on that old percolator. He'd pour the aromatic, sizzlin' bacon grease into the metal basket to filter out anything not pure unadulterated taste ticklin'.

As the magic grease pot remained parked over the pilot light, the golden goodness within maintained the perfect viscosity for pouring.

Dad slathered this soul satisfying seasoning on everything in sight. I'm talking beans, taters, and fried termaters. He poured it on soups, salads, souffles and sorbets. He slicked up baking pans, window fans, his own hands and beach tans.

All the medico sawbones tell us that rendered hawg fat is the root of many evils and a first cousin to most (cholesterol, heart disease, fatbuttaticus). The ranch hand is here to tell you that it's the only thing I know likely to make Blue Belle Ice Cream taste even better.

I ain't saying I ingest that sweet elixir anymore. I'm just saying Dad's bacon grease was a simple country pleasure that gave credence to the label "comfort food". Everything just seemed to taste better when it got a donation from that ole greasy pot.

FOREMAN

I been saddled with a number of monikers in my life, but jury foreman ain't been one of them - until today.

Yeah, I been ordered to jury duty a number of times in my life, but lawyers lettin' cops on juries is about as rare as a rockin' horse turd? Something about how we ignore the BS and judge the case according to the facts I'm thinking?

When I got my latest jury summons, I figgered it wouldn't amount to much more than a wasted day and the hassle of parking in downtown Austin.

I was wrong. I was selected for the jury and my fellow panelists elected me foreman faster than a chicken can peck a june bug.

After due deliberation, we found the defendant guilty in less than one minute.

Maybe the dang lawyers was right about me, but I confess to enjoying performing my civic duty today (and adjudicating the maximum penalty for that guilty SOB) .

MY BEST FRIEND

My bride is a special being. At once delicate, in a moment ethereal, more often mysterious (at least to her husband).

The true love of a woman is precious and rare. To attempt to describe it would be pointless, to try to manufacture it would be futile, to ignore it would be plain stupid.

Fully describing why I love my bride so overwhelmingly would be an impossible task. I think, however, that a part of the explanation can be found in her professional endeavors. Last Friday, the woman I love completed 25 years of government service and thus begins her well deserved reward (retirement).

Consider the following:

1. All who have known her throughout her career have marveled at the depth and hilarity of her special sense of humor.

2. She has been known by all in her workplace throughout her career, as ever fashionable, while remaining the essence of feminine beauty for every occasion.

3. She has remained forever honest, ethical, dedicated, and reliable.

4. She is smart, perceptive, hard working, and has been a valued member of any team.

Likely, country singer Don Williams said it best in one of his songs:

You're my bread when I'm hungry
You're my shelter from troubled winds
You're my anchor in life's ocean
But most of all, you're my best friend

I LOVE YOU SMOKY!

THE PROCESS

Deer hunting implies deer killing. Although that is often the outcome, deer hunting is so much more.

Today my friend and I went to the ranch. We tuned up the automatic deer feeders and loaded them with 200 pounds of corn (it will take about 400 pounds more to fill them). We discussed strategy for the coming deer season and we talked about additional protein sources for the deer.

My friend's 13 year old son was with us. He is ever eager, full of questions, and all boy. Seeing the preparation process through his eyes make the experience that much more interesting.

Later we shot several guns at targets before retiring to the local mexican food restaurant for lunch.

As the season nears over the next two months, we will no doubt continue to do things related to hunting that do not put venison on the table. However, it is all part of the process and is really what hunting has become for me. It is about the process more than the final result.

Relaxing, fun times, that make a day well spent and pleasurable.

GENTLE KINDNESS

Bein' poor has any number of connotations.

Hand-me-down clothes, holes in your shoes, beans and taters, ragged cars, and whatever your memory provides.

I would NEVER imply that memories of being economically poor are bad memories. My childhood recollections are of a loving family and an enjoyable environment. Well hell, I maybe could blog a couple or three issues, but that would be for another time?

My point is that growing up poor provides a different perspective from - hell if I know - because I did not experience anything else??????

Point in fact: Like most poor country folk, we "canned" vegetables to eat during the "hard times". The more affluent "poor" folk grew their vegetables. We, however, lacked enough ground to grow anything but weeds (and didn't always have a mower to cut them).

At our level of economic advantage, we acquired vegetables on the "half". This meant that we would travel to a local farm that grew tomatoes, peas, beans, okra, squash, or you name it? For whatever the family "picked", you got to keep half with no charge. Pick a bushel of tomatoes for the farm owner and you could pick a bushel to keep for yourself.

Awesome advantage for adults trying to feed a family. Hell on earth for a kid that just wanted to run barefoot and cavort all summer.

I remember sitting in the shade of the elm tree on the south side of our house for many a day shelling peas, "snapping" beans, coring tomatoes, cutting okra pods, and generally becoming a mental zombie from the routine of the chore.

Fortunately, I also remember the incredible flavor of those garden veggies when winter dawned. I remember tomato juice that had streamed flavor stronger than train smoke. I remember green beans and new potatoes cooked with bacon that to this day makes my mouth water with the memory. I remember jellies, jams, jars, and juices that fairly shouted to be consumed with their summer sun blessed goodness and extreme flavor.

But most of all, I now "remember" the hard, hot, dirty work that my mother endured to provide that bounty for our nutrition and our enjoyment. Mom didn't have money in any form, but she had more love for her children than my words can impart. That devotion made her drive to feed us stronger that any force you can imagine.

I love you more each day Mother, and thank you from my heart for your love, understanding, and gentle kindness in all things.