I stood at the barn gate, my arm over the neck of my mule Nebuchadnezzar, stroking his beautiful long ears softly. I listened to the rise and fall of the ratcheting song of the cicadas. The sun setting in a soft cushion of pink and orange sherbet clouds, cast a golden glow on the bark of the oak trees. It was still, sultry, and hot, but probably 20° cooler than the afternoon just passed. My shirt is still sweat soaked, while I finish feeding chores for the day. I’m home, back in Texas in August. The tomatoes, well, they’ve given up, and the grass is baking to light tan. A few days ago we had 15/100ths of an inch of rain, but that’s evaporated now. Now in the relative cool of the evening the young mares are playing tag in the west pasture, one is carrying the remnant of a gourd vine in her teeth, and the others are running after her like a seventh grade football team. I’d be lying if I said I don’t yearn for the cooler, dryer air of Colorado and Nebraska. And I did love revisiting old friends and old familiar places. But this is home. This is where I belong, with my wonderful family!
Monthly Archives: August 2016
Fried Squash Recipe
My wife’s family are Virginians, with that famous unreproducible Virginia accent, farming the Tidelands along the James River Southeast of Richmond. They raised vegetables (thats: veja – tubbles) for sale at the Richmond farmers market.( faw-ma’s mah-ket). Early, very early, nearly every day they were up working. While one of the boys hauled the harvest into town, usually by mule drawn wagon, the others were up “hoeing the row”. Hard work, self denial and frugality were the rule— except for at mealtime. The women were all incredible cooks, and dinner, the mid-day meal, was a feast. I’ll never forget their corn pudding! (That’s: Cawn puddin’). The table was filled with bowls and platters of meats, vegetables, and salads. One of my favorite dishes was southern fried squash. My own mother grew up in the Midwest, where they boiled squash, and I never was fond of it, but I fell in love with the Taylor’s southern fried squash.
It’s really simple to make, and only includes five ingredients. In a large cast iron skillet, heat up bacon grease (or olive oil) to moderately high temp, then chop up a yellow onion, and a couple of fresh young yellow straightneck squash into the skillet (they look like gold coins!). Sprinkle with salt and lots of black pepper and turn it frequently with a spatula or wooden spoon. When the squash is brown, and the onion caramelized, it’s ready. It’s done when it looks almost burnt.
Now that southern, honey!
Morning Horse Watching
We were away from horses for a pretty good spell, our own horses that is. So it was a delight when one morning I took my coffee out on our Nebraska friends’ front porch and watched the horses across the road in the morning sunrise. At first I was tempted to walk across the gravel road and visit over the fence. But then there’s a lot to be said for a more passive approach. Instead of interacting, sometimes it’s cool to just sit and be a spectator. I’m reminded of a Yogi Berra-ism, “you can observe a lot by watching.” Instead of judging their conformation or analyzing their gaits, I was just enjoying the beauty of the sunlight reflecting off of their coppery coats. It was calming to watch their fluid economy of movement as they strolled around the pasture without the anxiety of being directed by humans.The morning passed gently and slowly. I began to think about how and why I do some of the things I do with our equine brethren. Now I see the rightness of a statement by my old friend Ramon Becerra, a wondrous Horseman and trainer in Santa Ynez, California “Glenn, I no work horses anymore… I just play with them.”
Cool Rememberings of Portuguese Campinos
Now that the “dog days of August “have set in, and the thermometer is spurting mercury out of the top, with no rain in sight because of the high-pressure “Aggie dome” sitting over Texas, keeping away the storms which could otherwise bring us much needed moisture, we fondly remember recent days in more temperate climes! Ft Davis, Colorado,and Portugal!
One such really “cool” (in both meanings) night in Portugal we watched open mouthed as five guys brought a group of what looked like longhorn bulls into the horse show grounds. Basically, we watched a grassy football field become a ranch pasture as the riders, Portuguese cowboys called “campinos“, formed a moving cattle pen with their horses and long lances, called garrochas. Two of the horses moved sideways in front of a tightly clustered group of bovines numbering about six. The others were forming side and rear of the “equine corral”. But, wait, let’s not stop at that! Not only were they riding their horses sideways and right up in intimate contact with the bulls, keeping them contained and controlled with their position and with the use of their long garrochas, but they were only dressed in shoes, knee-socks and short pants. To top it off they carried their jackets over their left arms, while that same hand guided the reins. Then, their vests were bright red, over white longsleeved shirts, and they wore long tasseled stocking caps of green. Now, I understand that green and red are the national flag colors of Portugal, but what I saw were guys dressed like Santa’s elves, being more cowboy than Roy Rogers!