Bryce Angell is a cowboy poet. Angell was raised on a farm/ranch in the St. Anthony, Idaho area with approximately 75 head of horses. Horses remain an important part of Angell’s life.
Angell shares his poetry with Cache Valley Daily every Friday.
The waiter found our table, then he sat us down to eat. We’d been waiting for
this night to have the finest prime rib meat.
My wife likes prime rib medium. I like it cooked near rare. And the first bite was
near heavenly. None better I could swear.
The chef knew how to cook the meat. Culinarian first rate. Then I noticed bloody
drippings at the bottom of my plate.
My mind went back when I was young, a life of work yet joy. We were raised up
fed on meat and spuds like every country boy.
Providence was having two stocked freezers full of meat. Our grain fed beef
were marbled. Soon the butcher they would meet.
But somewhere in the middle of the butchering and the eat, we wasted many T-
bone steaks from using too much heat.
The cast iron pan was fired up and as far as I could tell. The steaks laid frying in
the skillet till they burned to h—.
Chewing took some effort. Just like gnawing a leather sheathe. And forget about
the meal if you were sporting real false teeth.
But then one day, while out at camp, I gained a life remake. Our leader taught us
how to cook delicious, perfect steak.
He sprinkled all the young men’s steaks with powdered garlic salt. Then placed
‘em in a hot pan. Watched ‘em almost to a fault.
He cut a chunk of rare red meat and placed it on my plate. I popped it in my
mouth. Dang sure, the best I’d ever ate!
That’s when I noticed drippings of meat juices mixed with blood. Mom taught it
was near sacrilege to eat the uncooked crud.
But my taste buds were convinced. I’d never overcook my meat. And try
convincing family that the drippings were a treat.
The cowboy fed the steer for you. Eked out a living somehow. The meat deserves
a cook who knows it’s Prime Beef! Not just cow.