93/02/11

Shortgrass Country

by Monte Noelke

            Along with destroying all hope for the future, the winter-long drouth, added to the dry summer and dry fall, has began to alter the results of my cooking. Thawed foods dry up the minute they soften. Delicate standbys, like aluminum cased TV dinners, powered sauces and soluble soup mixes, require a boiling tea kettle steaming up the kitchen until the drain boards reach dew point. Without the humidifier, the slivers of pot roasts and flakes of dry shelled peas mixed in the three minute dinners mummify into a state of dehydration that'll make the bottom chambers of the Great Pyramids seem as soggy as a rain forest.

            Before the drouth hit, the big trouble was non-prescribed burning. The main oven and countertop broiler and a second-hand microwave required a vigilant pilot. Sure as a short errand arose at the barn, or the telephone range in the bathroom, or a saddle horse broke into a feed sack in the back of a pickup, the output on these units rose to the level of a potter's kiln and cremated whatever food was on their shelves.

            But after decharcoaling a short trailer load of sliced bread, I began to take advantage of the grocery specials on artificial biscuits and use those phonies as decoys. Near out-of-date biscuits have a faster burn point than bakery bread, or flour tortillas. Instead of scorching a slice of expensive Canadian bacon, for example, I'd just toss in one mock biscuit worth about two cents; and at the first smell of smoke, throw in a fresh biscuit and turn the bacon over to finish cooking.

            Success meant two things. One, my front teeth and the top of my tongue and the outside lip crevices turned from black to a gleaming white; and two, the ground over the backyard fence began to hair over and lost the properties of a nuclear waste dump.

            From there, a smoke detector was wired into the telephone to trip at the fist whiff of smoke off the biscuits. Also, after the soot soaked off the butter knives, I began to recognize the taste of melted butter and appreciate the flavor and odor from the browned toast.

            Living like a cave dweller lowers the spirits and increases the danger of lung diseases. As the singe line rose on the kitchen wall, I knew tuberculosis or black lung was imminent. Black splotches were building up on the kitchen floor. Every time an ad for some outfit denouncing secondhand smoke came over the air, I'd throw the windows and doors open and cover my mouth with a wet bandanna like John Wayne used to do to save pretty girls from burning buildings.

            Along about then, restaurants started serving blackened food on purpose, or so their menus claimed. I remember being plenty skeptical about whether the cook had a new recipe, or maybe just a new scapegoat. I'd peaked out on blackened food at that time. I suppose if I'd been aware of the Cajun in the beginning, and learned how to throw a handful of cayenne pepper on everything from the main course to the table candles, I'd have shown a lot of promise as a hot pepper and burned skin cook.

            Prejudice against imitation biscuits is a deep seated family tradition. When the Big Boss was alive, he linked the downfall of man to tubular bread. Before my mother passed on, the only thing she had less use for than bakery bread was a vegetarian.

            Took a plenty smart guy to solve these problems and to finally discover a use for fake biscuits. People still don't hit here at meal time, but word will spread of the change, or it always has before...