Mountain Lion

There are times when luck works for you, and there are times when it doesn’t.  Sometimes two persons will split the good and bad luck with one hogging the all the good stuff and the other taking the leftovers.  But I think there is just as much of one as the other.  And for me the bad always follows the good.

When I was returning from a very successful fishing trip in Pennsylvania I realized I left my ice chest full of fish at the motel near Harrisburg.  The problem was that I was in Oklahoma when I realized it.  And there had been business stops in Ohio, Kentucky, Tennessee, Arkansas, and Missouri.  I was some eight days down the road.  I turned around and drove straight through to the motel.

I arrived to find my ice chest waiting for me.  I thanked the managers for saving it for me, paid the storage fee, and drove a few blocks away where I found a trash bin.  I opened the lid to throw out the well-spoiled fish and heard a growl that I didn’t like hearing.  I abandoned the ice chest and ran back to my car to escape the bear emerging from the bin.  I drove away, and I didn’t look back.  Forgetting that ice chest at the motel cost me a lot of time and travel money, and I had nothing to show for it.  But at least I had enjoyed a great fishing trip.

Georgia has some great bass fishing water, and I took a couple of days to rent a boat and do some serious fishing on the Georgia side of Lake Hartwell northeast of Atlanta.  I had a great time, and in addition to returning more than sixty fish to the water, I caught the biggest bass of my fishing career.  My hand scales showed it to be a little over nine pounds.  Just after taking a picture of it, I dropped my camera overboard.  I kept fishing and catching, but I was really trying to hook my camera, although I knew that it was ruined even if by some miracle I did retrieve it.  It was only a small amount of bad luck after the good luck of catching the big bass, but I was catching a lot of fish; therefore, something really bad was going to happen.  It did.

Returning to the boat rental company’s dock, I hit a submerged stump or rock or something, and down went the boat.  It didn’t sink, but that was only because of the floatation tanks in the bow and under the seats, but the motor was submerged.  Another boater rescued me and towed the submerged boat back to the dock.  That cost me a fifty.  Then I had to pay for the boat and motor.  Good luck/bad luck.

My cousin Vern was “unique” in my family.  Not that the entire family wasn’t “unique,” but Vern was possibly the most “unique.”  I didn’t see Vern very often, but this wasn’t a bad thing.  Whenever I did see him, I knew something was about to go very wrong. 

Vern’s portion of the family either owned or leased a ranch in southwest Texas, and they raised some cattle and had a small herd of sheep there.  It was a big place, and he and I had done a bit of hunting there for deer from time to time.  Now he was having some problems with a mountain lion taking about two sheep per week.  And so he came looking for me.  Vern was an experienced hunter, but a mountain lion was a bit daunting for him.  He decided that two daunted hunters would be better than one.

Neither of us knew much about the habits of the big cat, so we headed to the library to do some research.  In our quest for knowledge, we discovered many things, but the most important thing we came across was the bounty being paid for the skin, and we could keep the skin after it was marked and registered.  My first thought was about covering the cost of the trip.  Vern’s first thought was about beer.

We met at his ranch on a Friday evening and studied a map showing where the sheep kills were occurring.  We thought we could determine the approximate location of the next kill, and hopefully be close enough to it to take the lion.  Early Saturday morning we drove out to the location where we thought we could succeed at our task and took a long look around.

We glassed the range for four or five hours before driving back to the ranch house.  We knew we were up against a formidable opponent on his home ground.  But we were hopeful.  We took a long nap, and waited for the sun to move low in the western sky.

About eight in the evening we were back in the cat’s territory waiting for the moon to make it’s appearance.  But we were going to have a long wait.  The stars disappeared one by one as the clouds moved in and soon the rain began.  We got out of there in a hurry.  I can’t blame this on bad luck, because it hadn’t been preceded by good luck.  I can blame ourselves for not getting a weather report before starting the hunt.  We could try again next weekend.

I needed to spend a few days in New Mexico and Arizona on business and couldn’t return until the following Sunday, but I arranged to take up to four days vacation at the ranch and hunt for the mountain lion.  Vern, to his credit, didn’t go off bull riding or noodling, and he was there when I returned to the hunt.

This time the moon was just a couple of days past full, and we had plenty of light under the clear skies.  We walked the trails and roads on the property until about one in the morning, and then stopped to take a break.  We had just sat down when we heard the bells on the sheep start ringing, and we knew the cat was on the move.  We slipped into the shadows as much as we could and walked toward the disturbance.  Suddenly Vern started punching my shoulder and pointing into the distance.

Sometimes luck is in abundance.  The wind was slight, but it was blowing straight at us from the direction of the lion.  And lined up somewhat behind us was the moon.  Very gently I brought the hammer back to full cock on the .30-30 and lifted it up to peer down the iron sights.  I squeezed the trigger, and the cat tumbled end over end and never moved again.

Vern stood there with his mouth open for about as long as I did.  Then we decided we had better get it back to the ranch house.  But was it really dead?  Neither of us wanted to get very close to it to find out, so we threw a few rocks at it, but it just lay there.  After about half an hour Vern went back after the truck, leaving me to get eaten if it suddenly came back to life.  I chambered another round.

Vern drove up to the cat and rolled his window down just enough to push a fishing pole through and poke the cat a few times.  It still didn’t move, so I summoned enough courage to walk up to it—rifle ready, of course.  A few feet away I could see there was no need to worry.  The exit wound had come up through the spine a few inches behind the head.  We tossed the cat into the back of the truck and drove back to the ranch house.

There was not much sleep allowed on this night.  Neither of us went to bed nor did we want to do so.  We sat up in the kitchen with a pot of coffee, but a couple of times I think we dozed off while talking about our adventure.  After the sun was an hour or so old the next morning, we took a look at our prize.  It was an old battle-worn male with broken teeth.  It had probably turned to sheep killing out of convenience when it became too difficult to hunt deer.  The sheep dogs didn’t pose much of a problem, and if one got too close, it could become a meal.

We were puzzled about the path of the bullet from the .30-30.  The exit wound was obvious, but it wasn’t until we skinned it that we found the entry point.  When I squeezed off the shot, its tail was lifted, and I couldn’t have shot more dead center with a target rifle in a tournament.  We bundled up the skin and drove about 30 miles to the nearest town where we could collect our bounty. 

“Boys, you’re out of luck.”  The game warden had checked over our licenses and identification.  “Last Monday we got us a new law.  You cain’t shoot these critters anymore.  They’re endangered.”

I knew the good luck we had in taking this cat would be punished.  The warden cited us for waiting too long to turn in the cat we had taken “last week.”  Maybe that was good luck.  It could have been a lot worse.

The interesting thing is that neither Vern nor I ever questioned this “new law.”  It was about three or four years later I discovered that in Texas the mountain lion (a.k.a. puma, cougar, painter, big kitty, etc.) was never considered endangered, and there was no law preventing us from killing it.  This can’t be classified as either good or bad luck, so I file it under the heading of “Screwed.”

Croissant

Today I read about the Croger.  It’s a cheeseburger stuffed into a croissant instead of a hamburger bun.  Recently I’ve also been reading about the marriage of a croissant and a donut known as a Cronut or a Dossant or a Doissant.  What’s going on here?  Is the croissant becoming the new food palate where we can just recycle old ideas by combining it with another old idea?

 

I like croissants.  A good quality jam and a cup of coffee make the croissant a perfect simple breakfast.  Fill it with some chocolate and it becomes almost a dessert.  But apparently that isn’t enough for some people, so I started thinking what I could do with the croissant.

 

Crofu—Croissant stuffed with tofu.

Chicken and Croissants—Croclucks.  Forget the waffle, have a croissant instead.

Croissants and Baby Back Ribs—Croink.  Why not?

Croissants and Weiners—Crodogs.  Just fill the croissant like a hot dog.

Macaroni and Croissants—Cromacs stuffed with mac and cheese.

Fish and Croissants—Crofin.  Toss the chips aside.

Crocos?  Stuff the croissant with taco fillings.

 

You get the idea.  I could make this a list several pages long of stupid ideas I would never try to eat (although I am thinking about the Crodog).  It seems the food world is desperate to come up with new or original ideas.  Has the world grown tired of eating the millions of good and great recipe ideas we already have?  If so, why are so many of us overweight?  Could it be because we don’t want quality?

 

Variations of a good idea are a good thing but are not always successful.  Granted, sometimes a new idea is born of old ideas, and sometimes they are quite good (think Buffalo wings), but usually they are just okay at best.  To me the idea of using the croissant to build upon has some merit, but I still like a simple croissant with some quality jam and a cup of coffee.

 

Since I’m on this subject, what’s with all the fried things at fairs?  Deep fried Snickers, deep fried butter, deep fried mac and cheese, deep fried anything.  While we are at it, why don’t we just deep fry beer?  Oh wait—it’s been done.

 

I guess I’m bored with fad foods.  What ever happened to just good old food?  Maybe I missed the memo.

A Pancake By Any Other Name…

My dad called them pancakes.  His dad called them flapjacks, and his mom called them hoecakes.  My mom called them griddlecakes.  Her dad called them johnnycakes, and her mom called them skillet cakes.  I called them breakfast.

In the mid ‘sixties I discovered a restaurant devoted to pancakes.  I sampled my way through the menu over the course of many weeks, and I came to the conclusion that some pancakes are better than others.  Not just at that restaurant, but anywhere I had a pancake.  What is so difficult about making a pancake? I decided to find out.

The first batch of pancakes I ever made was from the memory of watching my grandmothers making them.  Did I ever have a lapse of memory!  I couldn’t call them pancakes, but I did have another name for them.  Into the trash they went.  My next batch was from a box with the picture of someone’s aunt on it.  It was much better, but my pancake cooking skills needed developing, so I began to make a lot of box mix pancakes.  Finally I reached a place of being comfortable with the cooking process.  Now I needed a good recipe.

I tried to make pancakes the way my grandmother’s did, but I just couldn’t get it right.  I had watched them for years, and I knew I had the right ingredients and about the right proportions, but something wasn’t right.  I asked my grandmothers about this and even made pancakes right beside them, but theirs were good, and mine were not good.  Mine looked as good as theirs, but the taste was completely different.  They both said they made pancakes by ‘feel.’

I’ve heard this many times by seasoned cooks.  A recipe is just a guideline, after that it’s intuition.  After all these many years of cooking, I finally understand.  And I’ve developed several kinds of pancakes I really like.  One of my favorites is a cornmeal pancake.

Cornmeal Pancakes

Serves 6.

2 cups all purpose flour                                       

1/2 cup yellow cornmeal                                        

1/2 cup blue cornmeal                                           

1 1/2 tablespoons sugar                                        

2 tablespoons baking powder                                    

1 1/4 teaspoons salt                                           

3 large eggs                                                    

2 teaspoons Home Made Pecan Flavoring*                          

2 cups milk                                                    

3 tablespoons melted and cooled butter                         

3 tablespoons corn or canola oil                                       

In a large bowl, combine the flour, cornmeal, sugar, baking powder and salt. In another bowl, whisk the eggs, Home Made Pecan Flavoring, milk butter and oil; stir into dry ingredients just until moistened.

Pour batter by 1/4 cupfuls onto a lightly greased hot griddle. Turn the pancakes over when bubbles form on top, and cook until the second side is golden brown.

I serve these with butter only or butter and jam.  Occasionally honey or molasses finds its way onto the pancakes, but never syrup.

*Home Made Pecan Flavoring:  Fill a jar with pecan halves or pieces.  Cover with inexpensive vodka.  Tighten the lid on the jar and set aside in a cool dark place for about 6 months.  Shake the jar from time to time.  Strain through several layers of cheesecloth into a clean jar and allow to settle for a few days.  Strain again being careful not to disturb the sediments.  It's ready to use.  Do not try to use the pecans for anything else.  Just toss them.  They’ve done their job.

I’ve tried this pancake recipe with vanilla extract, pecan-butter flavoring, and no flavoring at all.  There is no substitute for the Home Made Pecan Flavoring.

I Dare You

There are a few things a person can say to me that will cause me to lose all rationality.  One of those things is “I dare you.”  Another is “I double-dog dare you.”  Probably the number one thing on the list is “that snake is about to bite you.”  But that one is a story of its own.

 

In the late ‘sixties an acquaintance of mine had heard that I liked to do things outdoors.  He heard correctly.  I enjoyed fishing, hiking, hunting, canoeing, etc.  I didn’t enjoy baseball, skiing, football, golf, etc.  It seemed that Hank was a lot like me, if it connected with nature, it needed exploring.

 

Hank and I decided we needed to talk about this obsession of ours in a fishing boat.  We drove out to my grandparent’s lake home and launched one of the boats and motored over to the tulles where bass were known to hide.  Unfortunately we had a third party in the boat with us—my Uncle Sam.  I’m just glad Hank turned out to be blessed with an abundance of patience.

 

Sam was the first and last word on everything fishing.  Come to think of it, he was every word in between also.  Sam knew that I could fish, so he devoted his time to teaching Hank how to fish.  And Hank went along with it.  But the reality is that Hank caught a lot of fish that day just because he listened to Sam.

 

On the way home that evening Hank commented that I was very lucky to have a fishing partner like Sam.  It was the one thing he longed for but could never come up with.  I said I’d be more than willing to go fishing with him anytime.  This was the start of four years of adventure.

 

Hank was one of the fortunate few with absolute financial stability.  He worked, but not for a living.  He just wanted to be part of “normal” society.  So it was that anytime I could spare to go fishing, Hank was usually available.  But Hank wanted to do more than go fishing.  His draw to the outdoors was as big as mine, but with a small twist.  On one fishing trip Hank mentioned we should try mountain climbing.  Mountain climbing??  What did this have to do with fishing?  I told him that I just couldn’t see any reason to climb a mountain unless there’s a fish at the top.

 

“Where’s your sense of adventure, David?  I think it will be fun.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“Oh, come on.  I dare you.”

 

That did it.  No one dares David without seeing David go into action.  “Okay, I’ll do it but let’s place some money on who will chicken out first.”

 

“Ten bucks.”

 

“Done.”

 

Three or four weeks later we were enrolled in a climbing school in Colorado.  My job prevented me from pursuing the education full time, but over a period of several months, I completed the two-week course.  Hank, naturally, completed it in two weeks.  Then we started looking for something to climb.

 

We found a few low cliffs along the riverbanks, and we even rappelled down the side of a building in downtown Fort Worth.  We sought out anything we could go up or down on, but the first real climb for us was near Farmington, New Mexico.  Shiprock had been a climbing destination for some fifty years, but only thirty years earlier it had been climbed the first time by a team of Sierra Club members.  We gathered together a team of very experienced climbers to join us on this ascent, and each and every one of them tried to talk us out of it.

 

“It’s too difficult for novice climbers.”  We must have heard this fifty times, but no one refused to go with us.  So we did it.  I look back on that ascent and subsequent decent and think to myself, “That was one of the dumbest things I ever did.”  But Hank and I made it just fine, and we liked to think we pulled our own weight the entire time.  The following year (1970) Shiprock was closed to all climbers by the Navajo Nation.  I don’t know for certain, but we may well have been the last group to legally make the climb.

 

Since neither Hank nor I backed down from the climb, we had to find another way to settle the wager.  I challenged Hank to a climb up Yosemite’s El Capitan.  Near the foot of this edifice was a campground where for several years some of the best climbers around would gather to work out new routes to the top.  We joined them and soon we were making a two-day climb with a sleepover about half way up.  That climb made Shiprock seem like a stroll in the meadow.  Well, I’m writing about it, so I must have made it to the top.

 

Hank and I moved on to other challenges.  We spent some time learning to Scuba dive.  White water kayaking became first and foremost for a while.  We did some hunting, and of course we did some fishing.  Then came the challenge to skydive.

 

The lessons were pretty basic.  We had to learn to pack our own parachute.  We had to practice jumping off an eight-foot platform and rolling when we hit the ground.  I really don’t remember much else.  I’m sure there were more instructions, but for years I’ve tried to push this entire memory out of my mind.

 

Then it came time for the first of the three jumps we were to take.  The plane took off and in a few minutes had reached the altitude for first time jumpers.  We hooked our static lines to a bar near the doorless opening in the side of the plane, and when he got the signal, Hank jumped.

 

I stepped into the door and froze.  I wasn’t going out of the plane for any amount of money.  I planted one hand and one foot on each side of the opening, and when the signal came to jump, I didn’t.  The jump captain began to push me, but I was well planted and determined to stay on board.  Then the pilot turned the plane on its side and shook it like a can of spray paint until I fell out.

 

I fell for a lifetime, and then the parachute opened.  I continued to fall, just a bit slower now.  I watched the ground get closer and closer, and when I hit, I dropped and rolled just like the instructor had taught me to do.  I unbuckled the parachute, gathered it into a bundle, and climbed onto the waiting jeep where Hank was sitting and watching the show.

 

“Man, I can’t wait for my second jump.”

 

I grabbed my wallet and pulled a twenty from it and handed it to Hank.  “Here’s ten for the bet, and ten more to keep you from making any more challenges.”

 

Yes, I lost the bet.  If that company is still in business, I have two jumps coming, but something tells me I’ll never take them.  I enjoyed the other challenges and would probably still be doing them with Hank, but a few days after he took his final jump, he died from a brain aneurysm.

45th Annual Wild Game Feed

New Post on July 8, 2019.  51st Annual Wild Game Feed.

New Post on May 30, 2018.  50th Annual Wild Game Feed.

New Post on June 23, 2017.  49th Annual Wild Game Feed.

New Post on June 1, 2016.  48th Annual Wild Game Feed.

New Post on May 27, 2015.  47th Annual Wild Game Feed.

Everyone!  On May 26, 2014, I posted something about the 46th Annual Wild Game Feed.  Take a look.

Thanks,
David

The 2013 Annual Wild Game Feed at Irvine Lake is on its way!!  My ticket order form has arrived, and it’s already filled out, stuffed in an envelope, stamped, and in the mail.  This year I plan to show up early, stay late, and have a truckload of fun—just like I do every year.

While I don’t live just for the Wild Game Feed, I do start looking forward to it about 364 days in advance.  It’s held on the third Friday of September each year (this year it is September 20, 2013), and by the second Friday of September each year, I’ve already loaded the car with the things I plan to bring (shelter, big mug, chairs, etc.).  Chances are the night before The Feed, I’ll just nap if I sleep at all.

Over the years I’ve developed many WGF friends.  I don’t know the names of many of them, but I know their faces, and we will re-bond for another day.  The one thing that stands out to me is the camaraderie of these men (sorry ladies, this is a stag event).  Every type and background of man is represented in the attendance, but we are just a band of brothers.  A big band of brothers.  Some 1200 or more brothers.  And on the day of the feed, we are all equal.  I like this.  On this day we will eat, drink, smoke cigars, play games, share stories, and make plans to meet again next year.

The Annual Wild Game Feed is more than just an outing or a gathering of men.  It is also a fundraiser for charities.  Many dollars are raised each year to support a number of major and minor organizations providing help for others, and for this reason alone I support the WGF.  The rest is just bonus.

Tickets are limited and invitations are many.  Don’t hesitate or they may be sold out.

A Bowl of Green

Long ago I came to the conclusion that chili is more divisive than politics or barbeque.  When I developed my East Texas Chili (see Chili for One) in the mid-seventies, I managed to alienate virtually all of my Texas friends, but over time, I made a lot of new friends because of my chili.

 

After writing “Chili for One”, my email was rather busy for a long while.  Finally I wrote “Chili Controversy” to make my point of view quite clear, but all I managed to do was receive more emails on the subject.  I began to categorize the emails and quickly discovered the split was in two major areas with each area again divided into two groups.

 

The first division was those who agreed with me and those who did not agree with me.  The split was about 72% in agreement and 26% not in agreement.  The remaining 2% just complained because I didn’t use things such as tofu or shrimp.  The next split was in each category and was centered around whether or not they had made my chili.  In the non-agreement group, 14% had made a batch of East Texas Chili and liked it, and no one had disliked it.  The remaining 86% had not made it and would never make it.  Okay.

 

The group that had agreed with me had about 20% who had made the recipe, but only about 11% completely followed the recipe.  The other 9% had no problems with altering the ingredients to fit their individual tastes.  Hey, isn’t that what a recipe is about anyway?  The 80% who had not made the recipe were generally planning to make it in the near future.  Only a small number said they probably would not make it, but that they wanted to support my point of view.

 

Now the beans are about to fly again.  While in El Paso one fall, I was treated to a “bring what you got” chili party.  This was quite interesting.  Every one of the 40 or 50 people who attended brought a few ingredients to add to the pot, and the end result was enough chili to feed about 200.  But it wasn’t a red chili.  It was a green chili.  Not one person thought to bring beef, tomatoes, chili powder, or anything else red.  And I think this again proves my point that a “true Texas chili” is different in every part of the state.

 

After returning to my home in Fort Worth, I began a two-year trial and error green chili recipe development.  I tried to recreate the uniqueness of the El Paso “bring what you got” chili, and I think I came close. 

West Texas Chili

Serves about 30.

    1 pound thick-sliced center-cut smoked bacon, sliced crosswise into 1/2-inch strips    

    3 racks meaty pork loin back ribs, membrane removed, individually sliced
    2 pounds boneless pork shoulder, trimmed and cut into 1-inch cubes
    2 pounds boneless skinless chicken thighs, cut into 1/2-inch slices
    2 pounds smoked pork sausages, cut into 1/3-inch slices              
    2 pounds ground veal or pork                                         
    Olive oil as needed                                            
    2 large yellow onions, chopped                                 
    1 head garlic, peeled and finely chopped                       
    2 ancho chiles, seeded and cut into long very thin strips (no wider than 1/16-inch)      
    1 tablespoon Mexican dried oregano                                       
    1 tablespoon Kosher salt                                        
    Freshly ground black pepper, to taste                          
    2 tablespoons toasted cumin seeds, coarsely ground               
    2 quarts vegetable broth, not low-sodium                                      
    3 quarts chicken broth, not low-sodium                                        
    10 fresh poblano chiles, seeded and chopped                    
    6 fresh Anaheim chiles, seeded and chopped                     
    5 fresh jalapeno chiles, seeded and chopped                     
    3 yellow or green bell peppers, seeded and chopped            
    4 pounds fresh tomatillos, husked and coarsely chopped         
    1 bunch cilantro leaves, coarsely chopped (reserve stems for another use)                      
    2 (15-ounce) cans garbanzo beans, drained                       
    1 (1-pound) bag frozen roasted corn kernels
    1 tablespoon dried basil leaves, crumbled
    1/3 cup toasted corn flour (not masa harina)
    Zest and juice of 2 large limes

 

In a large skillet, cook the bacon over medium-high heat until almost crisp.  Remove the bacon with a slotted spoon into a large stockpot.  Place 1/2 of the ribs into the skillet and sear on all sides, about 6 to 7 minutes total.  Remove to the stockpot with the bacon and repeat with the remaining ribs.  When the ribs are completed, add the pork shoulder cubes to the skillet and sear on all sides.  Remove to the stockpot.  Repeat with the chicken and sausage.  Adjust the oil in the skillet to about 1 tablespoon then add the veal and brown, crumbling with the back of a spoon.  When brown add to the stockpot.

 

Adjust the oil again to 1 tablespoon and add the chopped onion.  Saute for 2 minutes and add the garlic.  Saute 2 minutes more, stirring often.  Remove to the stockpot.  Add the ancho chile strips, oregano, salt, pepper, cumin, vegetable broth, and 2 quarts of the chicken broth to the stockpot.  Bring to a simmer, uncovered for 45 minutes.  Add the remaining chicken broth, fresh chiles, and bell pepper, and simmer, covered, 30 minutes more.

 

Toast the corn flour by spreading on a baking sheet and placing in a 350F oven for about 5 minutes or until fragrant.  Remove from the oven and allow it to cool to room temperature.

 

In a blender puree the tomatillos and cilantro leaves.  Add to the stockpot, along with the garbanzo beans, frozen corn kernels, and toasted corn flour; loosely cover and simmer 45 minutes more.  Add the lime juice and zest, stir and serve with plenty of napkins.

 

Serve with your choices of cornbread, flour tortillas, grated Mexican Manchego cheese, lime wedges, cilantro, fresh sliced chiles, chopped red onion, green salsa, fresh corn tamales, etc.

 

Note:  A large can of drained and rinsed hominy can be added at the same time as the blended tomatillos, cilantro leaves, and garbanzo beans.  Also, 1/2 to 1 cup finely grated dry-aged jack cheese or Parmesan cheese can be added during the last 15 minutes.

 

The chili should be a little thin, but not watery.  To thicken, leave off the stockpot cover during cooking and increase cooking time to concentrate the stock.  To thin, add a bit more chicken and/or vegetable stock.

 

Made in Texas by Texans.

Another Adventure Begins

In August 1975 I moved to California.  I left my job with the company where I had worked for many years, picked up and just moved.  My parents had been transferred around the country for a few years and ended up about 50 miles east of Los Angeles, and they invited me to join them and return to college.  I took them up on the offer.

 

I didn’t quite know how to settle down after so many years of travel and adventure, but I gave it a try.  I enrolled in a local college, made a few friends, and spent most nights in a coffee shop or two or three.  Years of meetings in different cities across the country, often several cities in a single day, left me with a huge case of jet-lag and an insatiable desire for caffeine.  My new friends would join me for a few hours, but eventually they couldn’t keep up with my schedule.

 

For years I had rarely slept more than an hour or two per night, and often I would go many nights without ever seeing a bed.  Dallas meeting this morning, Chicago this afternoon, Cleveland tonight, Los Angeles tomorrow morning, New York City tomorrow evening, Denver the next morning.  Such was my life.  Whenever I got a bit of time off, I took advantage of every moment.  After years of this routine, I found I was extremely addicted to coffee, and I just couldn’t sleep.  Thus the all night coffee shops.

 

My college classes were centered on geology, and this fed my lust for the outdoors, but college keeps one close to home most of the time.  And this was another reason for the coffee shops every night.  I just couldn’t afford the time to travel.  Like it or not, classes started at 8am five days a week.

 

My friends and I would grab a big booth at the local Bob’s Big Boy about 9 every evening where we would have coffee, dinner, coffee, desserts, coffee, snacks, and coffee for a few hours.  The waitresses began to join us when their shifts ended, and the group would grow and then shrink as some people had to go elsewhere (home).  Usually the last ones there when the coffee shop closed would go as a group to another coffee shop nearby to continue the fun.  I was always one of that second group.  And so was Rachael.

 

Rachael was the cashier at Bob’s when I started going there, but soon she became a waitress.  It always made me happy when she joined the group at the big booth, and before very long we became the last two to leave each night.

 

We were married April 30, 1977 at the Chapel in the Wildwood in the foothills above Upland, California.  And within a few hours we were on a road trip up the coast.  We stopped in many great little towns and cities on the journey, but mostly we stopped for cows.

 

Rachael had never seen a cow before and was absolutely fascinated by them.  Our photo album of the trip is mostly of cows.  Yes, there are a few shots of the ocean and other sights along the way, but if you ever get the opportunity to see this album, well, expect to see cows.

 

We stayed in a variety of places and some were better than others.  One of the most expensive places we stayed was in a town north of San Francisco and, believe me, it still ranks as one of the worst places I’ve ever been.  When we travel today, this is still one of the three places we compare all others to (the other two are in Flagstaff and Albuquerque, and they are a story of their own).

 

When we arrived at the motel’s office, we were not happy with what we saw.  The photos we had seen before making our reservation were not even of the same buildings.  We had seen a series of individual brick houses with carports.  We arrived at a large wooden structure with boards falling off the side.  And we parked in a dirt yard.  With mudholes.

 

We drove around for about an hour looking for another place to spend the night, but “No Vacancy” signs were everywhere, so we reluctantly drove back to the building.  We didn’t recognize it at first, but after looking at it for a few minutes, we realized the building was now leaning to the west instead of the east as it had been earlier in the day.  It changed the entire look of the building.  We checked in.  We should have spent the night in the car.  At least they had a restaurant at one end.  Another mistake on our part.  The only thing I can say was that the gasoline flavored martini was served in the correct glass.

 

The next morning we drove a few miles to another town where we immediately checked into a motel just to shower and use the laundry to get rid of the fleas.  Then on to Sonoma and Napa, and other great places.  But soon we had to turn back toward southern California.  At least we could take a route through the Sierra Nevada to get there.

 

After leaving Yosemite we took a side trip up into the Sequoia/Kings Canyon area.  About halfway up into the mountains, a gentle white substance began to fall.  Rachael, who grew up in So.Cal., naturally thought a forest fire was in the area and we were being covered by ash, but I had seen snow before.  She began to worry, so I pulled over to the side of the road to let her take a closer look.  I wish I could describe her excitement at this discovery.

 

We spent only a couple of hours in the snow, but the size of the trees made the side trip worthwhile.  Even though I had been in California many times, these trees were something I had never seen before.  No picture could do them justice.  True, the photographs accurately showed their size, but the real life physical experience is indescribable as one stands at the base of one of these giants.  Now I truly know how a Chihuahua must feel when standing beside a person.  Actually the difference is much greater.

 

After driving back into the Los Angeles area, but still a couple of hours from home, we stopped at a restaurant for dinner and noticed a sign for the annual Renaissance Faire out west of the city.  We found a motel for the night and spent the next day in the late 1500’s.  It couldn’t have been a better week.  And I couldn’t have asked for a better life.

Canoe

I discovered the joy of canoeing at a summer camp when I was thirteen years old, and for about thirteen more years the canoe remained my favorite watercraft.  As a fisherman, the canoe provided me with access to areas a more conventional craft couldn’t reach.  It was easier to transport, and it was just too much work for most fisherman wannabes.

 

In reality, I’ll give anyone fishing lessons, but sometimes I just want to give someone a lesson about fishing.  Anyone wanting to learn to fish has a place in my heart.  I remember when my Uncle Sam taught me how to fish.  Although I was already a decent fisherman, Sam was an expert, and I wanted to learn anything he could teach me.  I was an eager and willing student—well, maybe not so much at first, but the circumstances were a bit unique.  When Sam and I went fishing we would take one of the motored boats from the family compound and concentrate on fishing and the techniques involved.  And I would do the same for anyone desiring to learn to fish from me, but there was the occasional know-it-all.  That’s the one who went into the bow of my canoe.

 

Jerry was a wannabe and a know-it-all at the same time.  He lived about a quarter of a mile from me, and we had gone to the same schools from about the fifth grade until high school graduation.  He knew I liked to fish, and for years I heard about his exploits at this lake or that river.  His family took frequent vacations to places I could only read about in books, and he would talk endlessly about catching exotic fish in Mexico, Canada, and all over the United States.  There were times I went to the library to look up some of the fish he caught, and they were listed and illustrated, but they weren’t necessarily found where he found them.  I wondered about that, but I never said anything.

 

After graduating high school I purchased a used aluminum canoe from a summer camp when they were selling off the ones they deemed unfloatable.  I patched a couple of holes in it, and it served me well for many years.

 

Two or three years later I had a chance meeting with Jerry while picking up some fishing tackle at Buddie’s Hardware.  He was looking at the plastic floats trying to figure out the reason some were red on the bottom and white on the top and some were white on the bottom and red on the top.  I just let him keep working on that one.

 

We, rather, he began talking about his latest adventure with a trotline on Yellowstone Lake.  I knew that one didn’t happen, so I invited him to join me at my grandparent’s lake house in a couple of weeks, and we could spend the day fishing on Eagle Mountain Lake.  He thought that was a great idea.  He had a ‘new’ fishing pole he wanted to try out.

 

I noticed Robbin the sales clerk was keeping an ear toward our conversation, and she was trying hard not to smirk.  Now that girl knew fishing.  Her husband was a long time friend of mine, and he was a very good fisherman.  When he met Robbin, their first date was a group fishing trip to Grapevine Lake where she took the prize for the most fish.  Robbin looked over at me, and I gave her a wink.  When she came over to see if she could help us, I just let her handle Jerry, and I left the store.  About an hour later I came back.

 

“David, I don’t think he’s ever been fishing before.”  Robbin was almost laughing.

 

I told her of my years of suspicion, but that he confirmed it with the story of the trotline on Yellowstone Lake.  I then asked what she had sold him.  Oh boy.  Jerry had spent a small fortune.  Well, if he had any intention of ever fishing all those places he had spent years telling me about, he would be well equipped.

 

I picked up Jerry early on a Saturday morning and before the sun was creating shadows, we were in the canoe paddling across the lake.  Needless to say, I was doing the paddling, and Jerry was doing the complaining.  He was switching sides with that paddle on every stroke, and every stroke was just a water splash.  With a degree of regularity, we had to retrieve his paddle.  Finally we reached the far side of the lake where the cattails were growing and where I had caught many fish over the years.

 

Slowly I lowered the weight I used as an anchor and began to set up one of the two rods I brought along.  Jerry watched with great interest before doing something similar.  Similar but not the same.  I’m not an expert on knots, but I do know when something isn’t a knot.  I don’t know what he tied, but it wasn’t a knot; however, it really didn’t matter.  I skewered a worm on my hook, and so did Jerry.  I placed a float (white bottom, red top) about eight feet from the hook, and so did Jerry.  I tossed my line in the water, and so did Jerry—along with his rod and reel.

 

The only indication where the rod was located was the float on the surface of the water.  We retrieved his float, and he began to pull up the line as it unwound from the reel.  I estimated about two hundred fifty yards of line on the reel so Jerry was going to be busy for a while.  I had time.  Besides, I was fishing.

 

Sometime later Jerry asked me if I thought the line was tied onto the reel.  I assured him that if Robbin set it up for him, it was well tied.  He kept pulling up line.  As I pulled in my fourth fish, Jerry pulled up his rod and reel.  Now he had a choice.  He could try to rewind the line on the reel, or he could cut it off, stuff the tangle in a bag, grab another one of his four rods, and fish.  He chose to rewind.

 

It took Jerry about three quarters of an hour to realize that it was fruitless to rewind that line.  Finally he stripped off the three or four feet he had managed to get back onto the reel, cut it loose, and stuffed it into a bag.  Fifteen minutes later he had a line in the water, but I still couldn’t figure out his method of attaching the hook to the line.  A fish figured it out for me.  It wasn’t a knot.

 

Jerry needed help, but he was a self-professed expert at fishing, and there is no way he would ask.  And I didn’t offer.  I now had nine fish in the nine to fourteen inch range on my stringers (I separated bass, catfish, and crappie to different stringers—I don’t know why I did that except Sam taught me to do it), and Jerry was still trying to catch his first fish. 

 

About midday Jerry began to squirm.  He was feeling the confines of the canoe, and I admit a canoe is never very comfortable under the best of circumstances.  The need to stretch the legs is something only experience can overcome.  Jerry stood up.  Jerry fell overboard.  There are times I’m glad I require passengers to wear a life jacket, and then there was Jerry.  But he was wearing one.  I didn’t count him as my tenth fish, but I fished him out of the water and back into the canoe.  He crawled back to the bow and sat down.  At least he didn’t loose his rod this time.

 

To me midday means lunch.  I knew Jerry would not think far enough ahead to prepare a lunch, so I packed plenty.  Out of a bit of pity, I paddled to the nearest bank and let Jerry walk around on shore and stretch his legs while we were eating.

 

“Rough day, huh?”

 

“Yeah.  I never fished from a canoe before.”

 

Or from anywhere else I thought.  “It takes some getting used to.  I’ve been doing it a while.”

 

After an hour or so we climbed back into the canoe and paddled to another nearby spot where the crappie and bream tended to hang out.  I caught a few more fish, and somehow, someway, Jerry caught one.  It was a catfish a full two feet long.  A fish to be proud of.  The way he hooted and hollered, one would have thought he had never caught a fish before.

 

I paddled and Jerry splashed his way back across the lake to the old wooden dock near my grandparent’s house.  We set everything up on the dock and I steadied the canoe while Jerry climbed up on the dock, tripped, and fell back into the water on the other side.  Well, he had on the life jacket.

 

We carried the fish to the cleaning station where Jerry (to his credit) actually helped.  He threw up only once.  Then we packed the fish into my ice chest and carried it to the car.  We retrieved the canoe, cleaned it up, and loaded it on the racks on the top of my car.  Jerry slept all the way home.

 

I went out of town on business for a few weeks, and when I got home I was invited to have dinner with my friends Karl and Robbin.  Apparently Jerry had a great time on our outing.  Robbin said he had been into Buddie’s Hardware several times talking about the fish he caught.  When I mentioned falling out of the canoe, dropping his rod and reel overboard, and even falling off the dock, Robbin was quite surprised since there had been no mentioned of this.  However, he had purchased a canoe.

Dessert Wars

Pecan Pie
Blackberry Cobbler
Peach Cobbler
Pecan Pralines
Texas Sheet Cake
Buttermilk Pie
Texas Soggy Cake (Tres Leches)
Banana Pudding
Apricot Fried Pies
Sweet Potato Pie
Homemade Ice Cream (vanilla, fresh peach, or fresh strawberry)
Bread Pudding (Capriotada)

I was thinking about dessert a few days ago (actually I think about it all of the time), and I realized I have 12 “go to” treats on my list.  Oh, believe me, there are many more on the list, but these 12 are my favorites.  The next 75 or so just barely missed the top 12, and the remainder is not to be ignored.  I decided to do some on-line research as to the preferences Texans have for dessert, and I wasn’t exactly surprised to find similar listings among other Texans.  If anything tops the lists it’s the pecan pie, but all others were very well represented.

Many other desserts showed up as favorites as well.  The pound cake, date cake, apple pie, etc.  The list is long, but the list I made is very representative of the basic Texas desserts.  My intention is not to make this into a “pie fight,” but to highlight a few of the approaches Texans take to satisfy the sweet tooth.  The title of this article is not about people fighting over dessert, but the difficulty I have in choosing one.

I like dessert, and one look at my recipe files will substantiate that claim.  If there is only one dessert available, I have no problem, but if there are two, my only choice is to have some of each.  Three desserts and I’m in trouble, although I will somehow find room for each one.  Four?  Oh, boy.

Long ago someone asked me to write my motto for life.  I thought about this for a long time, and I considered many things.  I examined my world of business.  I thought about my years of hunting and fishing.  I searched deeply into my religion.  I also considered all the good things one can be involved with, and well as the mundane things.  But the one thing that kept coming back to me was the brevity of life.  In the end I wrote, “Life is short.  Eat dessert first,” after which I immediately drove to a bakery and purchased a pecan pie.

My great-aunt Gertrude was a wonderful cook.  She was working as the cook for the old Circle X Ranch outside of Fort Worth when she met and married my great-uncle John.  The year they married was 1907.  She was expected to keep the family and ranch hands well fed, and I like to think my uncle (a ranch hand) was so happy with what he was eating he married the cook.

Anyway, she always made pies, especially pecan pies.  I don’t remember going to visit them when a pecan pie wasn’t readily available.  After my uncle passed away, she never again made her great pies.  But she passed on the recipes.


Circle X Pecan Pie

Beat together butter with a big scoop of sugar.  Add eggs until creamy.  Mix some chopped pecans with a bit of flour.  Mix everything together with some salt and corn syrup.  Pour into a piecrust and bake until done.


I watched her make this pie more than once, and the following is how I’ve written the recipe.  The finished pie is very close to the original.  I think the difference is because of her wood-burning stove—and something only a great-aunt can put into a pie for her wide-eyed nephew.

Serves 8.

1 tablespoon plus 1 teaspoon butter                                           
1 1/2 cups sugar                                               
5 large eggs                                                   
1/4 teaspoon salt                                              
1 cup corn syrup (light or dark.  I prefer dark.)                                               
1 cup pecans, finely chopped                                   
1 tablespoon all purpose flour    
1 (8-inch) unbaked pie shell                            

Cream the butter and sugar.  Mix in the eggs one at a time and beat until smooth.  Mix the flour in with the pecans, and then mix everything together.  Pour into an unbaked 8-inch pie shell.  Bake at 375F for 35 to 40 minutes.

 

Aunt Gertrude used corn syrup in her recipes, but commercial corn syrup was not readily available when she worked at the Circle X Ranch.  I don’t know if the ranch made their own corn syrup (a distinct possibility), or if she used some other type of syrup originally.  But by the time I was watching her make the pies she was using corn syrup.

 

This is an old-style pecan pie.  Today’s pecan pies are usually larger (9-inch, deep-dish) and fancier (pecan halves, praline, etc.), but this old-style pie is pure Texas.

Biggie—Year Two

Biggie is now five years old, and he has been in my life for two years.  As I explained before in “Biggie”, he is my neighbor’s dog, but my wife and I take care of him on a part time basis.  We walk him every day while his ‘Mom’ is at work, and he ends up staying with us until she gets home in the evening.

 

There are days when he just lays around the house, but they are quite rare.  Laying around is not high on Biggie’s priorities.  He is not a hyper dog, but he is a curious dog.  He also wants to be held for hours on end.  And all socks in the house belong to him, whether or not they are on one’s feet.

 

A few months ago he gave us a scare.  My wife gives him a bath about once a week, and she noticed a large lump had developed under his chin in just a few short days since his last bath.  His “Mom” couldn’t afford to take him to the vet so I footed the bill.  The big bill.  Ouch!  I said before I would not pay his vet bills, but that resolve quickly disappeared when his life was on the line.  Biggie was slowly choking due to pressure on his windpipe, and I was NOT going to lose another dog, even if he wasn’t my dog.  A biopsy, many shots, and an oral medicine brought the problem under control, but for about two weeks, there was more than a small amount of doubt that it would work.  But it did.

 

Lately I’ve been the one walking him almost every weekday, and he knows exactly where he wants to go.  A few weeks ago I made the mistake of walking him by the taco stand across the street at the exact moment a lady dropped her taco.  Biggie was all over it like a, um, uh, dog on a taco.  And his memory is very long.  Now his walks have become a battle of wills, but so far I’ve been winning.

 

Each day Biggie has hopes of another taco, and he knows the shortest route to the taco stand.  The stress on his harness and leash is enormous as he pulls one direction, and I’m pulling another.  My biggest fear is that should I give in, walk him by the taco stand, and someone will drop another taco.  If that happens there will be no winning in the future.

 

I must admit though, I’m planning on a special trip there in a few days.  The stand has an outdoor patio where dogs are welcomed, and I’m willing to drop a few bites of taco, maybe a chunk or two of burrito, or some quesadilla.  Honestly, Biggie has me wrapped around his paw.  Oh, well. 

Hunting Dog

My friend Mike had a dog he wanted to train to hunt.  On the surface, this sounds reasonable, but when one considers Mike and I were only some 10 years on this earth, and the dog was a freebie from a bin of puppies in front of Buddie’s Hardware, one must reconsider the word ‘reasonable.’

 

Mike and I liked to think we were hunters.  We had made bows from willow sticks, bowstrings from kite string, and arrows from a pile of old bent dowel rods we found in the trash behind the hardware store.  We sharpened the dowel rods and cut notches in the other end and called them ‘arrows.’  Good enough.

 

The hunting instinct runs deep in some dogs and people.  In others, well, it just isn’t there.  Mike and I were hunter wannabees, and over time we became real hunters, but this dog had no concept of hunting anything more than his feed bowl and a place to nap.  This dog knew the difference between opening a can of dog food and a can of corned beef hash.  Essentially they look and smell the same, but the dog knew the difference by sound.  What a dog.

 

This dog had a name.  It was ‘Mutt’, and we usually called him that, but he answered only the to sound of a can opener.  He was big, shaggy (probably a sheepdog mix), and was about 3 years old when Mike decided to train him to hunt, and he had never done anything but eat and sleep.  We borrowed some books on dog training from the local library, and in a few days had fashioned Mutt a dog collar and leash from a long piece of old rope we picked up somewhere.  Neither one made Mutt very happy.

 

We took turns trying to get Mutt to ‘heel, sit, come, and stay.’  ‘Stay’ was the only command Mutt would obey, and only because he was too lazy to get up to do anything at all.  Finally Mike tied the rope to his bicycle handlebars to take Mutt for a walk.  The ride was a short one.  In fact Mutt never moved.  Mike reached the end of the rope, and the rope tightened as Mutt was still lying down.  Mutt never moved in the slightest, but the handlebars on the bike were twisted to the side, and Mike took a hard fall.  End of the first training lesson.

 

Over a few weeks, we managed to get Mutt to understand that when the rope was tied to the bicycle, it was time for a walk.  Slowly Mutt would get to his feet, and slowly he would walk behind the bike, and slowly the bike would be peddled, because if the rope grew tight, Mutt would lie down and not move until he heard the sound of a can opener.  This was working well enough until the day Mutt crossed paths with a cat.

 

It was my turn to walk Mutt.  I had learned to tie the rope to my seat post rather than my handlebars since this gave me a bit more stability if Mutt suddenly stopped.  We had gone about two houses distance down the sidewalk when a big fuzzy white cat walked in front of us.  I heard a hiss from the cat, a whimper from the dog, and the next thing I knew I was lying in someone’s yard.  I sat up to see that the cat was still where I remembered it, but Mutt and my bike were not to be seen.

 

I looked down the sidewalk and saw Mike chasing Mutt while my bicycle was bouncing along behind him as though he didn’t know it was there.  The chase ended when Mutt jumped a low fence and the bike didn’t make it over.  Mike caught up with his dog and untied the rope from his neck.  Then he picked up my bicycle and started to carry it back to me, but Mutt picked up the rope dangling from the seat and took the lead in returning my bike.  Mike and I just stared at the dog for a moment simply not believing he actually did something on his own.  Maybe something had changed.  We were going to find out.

 

The next day Mike had the honors of taking Mutt for a walk, besides, my bike needed some repair.  It was nothing serious, but the handlebars and seat were twisted, and the rear fender was smashed.  When Mike tried to tie the rope onto Mutt’s collar, Mutt growled and bared his teeth.  Wisely Mike backed off, but when he got on his bike to ride over to where I lived, Mutt followed along on his own.  Unbelievable.

 

We decided it was time for Mutt to go hunting.  When my bike was repaired enough to ride, we gathered up our bows and arrows and rode over to the field near the railroad tracks where cottontail rabbits were everywhere.  Mutt just followed along.  We rode at our normal speed, and the dog kept up with us.  When we reached the field, we dropped our bikes, grabbed our bows, and began our hunt.  Rabbits were jumping everywhere, arrows were flying everywhere, and Mutt was guarding our bikes and watching the show.

 

Mutt was right.  He didn’t need to be trained to be a hunting dog.  It was Mike and I who needed to be trained as hunters.  We gathered our arrows and tried again.  The rabbits had nothing to worry about.  Our unfletched crooked dowel rods couldn’t shoot straight under any circumstances.  I don’t remember how many times we gathered up our arrows and tried to hit a rabbit.  It must have been at least seven or eight times and could easily have been many more.  But no rabbit went home with us that day—or for several more years.

 

Mutt sat patiently as we gathered up our arrows one last time.  The ride home was hot and dusty, and when we got to Mike’s home, we sat for a while on his front lawn and cooled off with a Big Red.  Mutt found a cool drink of water and came over to join us.  Mike reached out to pet his dog, but Mutt just backed away a few feet.  When Mike told him he’d never have to go hunting again, Mutt stood up, walked over to Mike and lay down with his head in Mike’s lap.  I commented that I just might like to try it again.  Mutt’s response was a low growl, bared teeth, and a stare that made me take back my words.  That dog was a whole lot smarter than I had ever given him credit for.  What a dog.