Milk and cookies

I’m very used to seeing white-faced Angus-Hereford crosses in the countryside, but these Oreo cookie cattle (actually Belted Galloways) are not a usual sight. These two are prime examples of the breed. True “belties” have a band all the way around their midsections with no white markings anywhere else. Those who have other markings are considered undesirable by purists.

No matter what the purists think, those other markings are cute and fun, like this one’s heart-shaped mark. Is its name Valentine?

The calf at picture’s upper center lacks only cookies to complete this picture.

Glasses of cold milk with a bag of Oreos would have been a great way to enjoy our visit to the pasture, but we did not have this calf’s privileged access to milk. I doubt we could have caught up with Mama to get a share of her milk. Even if we did manage to get fresh milk, it would not have been cold. And we were a long way from any Oreos.

The cattle were pretty jittery with us staying at a distance. Getting into the pasture certainly would have stampeded them. I prefer to remain at a respectful distance.

Grass is always greener…

This steer got out of his pasture and strolled across the road to visit the neighboring bull. After awhile, Steer decided it was time to return home.

Bull did not seem to care for being left alone. He turned around and let out a loud bellow, seemingly in protest of his loneliness.

Steer strolled back across the road toward his pasture,

only to find that he can’t go home again!

Move over to Kroger

Every time I see this picture, I think of an old Kroger grocery store commercial:

“Moooooove over to Kroger
Quality guaranteed …”

This commercial is so old that it doesn’t show up on YouTube. I found another one that I remember from c. 1988, but not the one with the singing cows.

My roommate Irene and I laughed every time we saw those silly cows. Whoever created that ad has set a permanent hook into my memory.

The power of a jingle. Scary, isn’t it?

A Sunday drive in the country

My Soul Brother and friend Steve writes his first guest post. His wife is Marilyn’s cousin, whom I referred to in the new profile picture post.

Sunday afternoon was beautiful this week on the Front Range, so I told my wife I’d like to take her on a 15-minute drive over to the new hospital to see the finished product. “When we get back, I’ll put some chicken on the barbie,” I said.

Patty liked the idea.

After we saw the hospital, it was too nice to go home. Instead, we went exploring for a while. We decided to drive out east of town and enjoy the countryside. Although not our intent, we were soon completely lost.

We eventually found a road going “sorta west” in the direction of home. It was a beautiful drive, so who cared if it was taking a while? Eventually, though, the question came: “Shouldn’t we be there by now?” Suddenly, literally without warning, the paved road turned into gravel. Oh, dear.

However, the street did have a name, and it seemed familiar. That street turned onto County Line Road. Apparently we were still in some county. Then we came to Cowpoke Road and knew we might be in trouble.

So we’re driving on this gravel road DIRECTLY into the sun, blinded. Too far right, we’re stuck in the deep gravel and some soft sand. Too far left, we could be driving into a head-on with a flatbed. Well, carry on.

“I’m sure the road we want is up here in this direction,” said Patty.

Then she exclaimed, “Is that a cow standing in the road up ahead?!”

How did I know? I couldn’t see. Pretty soon, though, I turned to her and commented, “There appears to be a cow standing in the road up ahead.” The biggest cow I had ever seen was standing directly in the center of the road. I slowed down and eventually stopped, looking at the cow. Bessie thought about it, then slowly sauntered off the road. I drove by, staring at the cow. Then she turned and looked straight at us, with menace in her eyes. I wasted no time getting out of there, seeing as Bessie wanted her road-spot back. I chose not to point out to her that the grass was “over there.”

It was evident we were getting nowhere. We’d stop at a farmhouse and make some inquiries. As we had been traveling what seemed like days, maybe we could also get some water and food and go to the bathroom. Nobody was at the first house except a big dog with a very mean bark. I drove down a long driveway to the next house. Upon arrival, five very yippy-yappy little dogs swarmed the car. I immediately turned around, while trying not to squash the yap out of one of the dogs with my front tire.

We finally decided to call it a loss and drive all the way back from whence we came. Along the way I had to stop and make water in a deserted spot on the road (well, all the spots were deserted along that stretch, come to think of it). Further on, we met old Bessie again. She had reclaimed her place smack-dab in the middle of the road. This time she refused to budge. We had no hay to give her. The appeal of our car horn landed on deaf ears. With barely enough road on the side, we carefully and fearfully drove around her. She still had the evil eye.

A pickup emerged on the horizon parked at the side of the road. Just when I thought I’d stop (who says real men don’t ask for directions?), I saw three guys wearing hunting caps. Did they hear me honk at Bessie? I kept going.

About two hours into our 15-minute drive, we found the road back to civilization. At this point, Patty took over the decision-making. “Go directly to Wendy’s,” she said. “I’m starving, I have to pee, and I’m not waiting for any gol-dang barbecue to cook up some chicken. I’m eating me a cow.”

Where cheese comes from

Some years ago, we visited Sweet Home Farm in Elberta, Ala. The proprietors had free-range chickens roaming about and their Guernsey cattle were pastured within sight of their cheese store.

To us, rural folks that we are, the chickens and cattle were comforting signs of authenticity. We could tell that we would be buying — and eating — artisanal cheese, not some “cheese food” cranked out of some soulless factory.

The cheese we bought was all we hoped it would be: Absolutely delicious. Too bad proprietors don’t ship their cheese. We would love to eat Bayside Blue Cheese again.

However, not everyone found the animals’ presence comforting.

Some city folks had come in one day. They asked what the cattle were doing there.

Proprietors told them the cattle produced the milk that proprietors made into cheese.

City folks turned green and left. Apparently, they thought milk and cheese just magically appeared in the store.

That is an udderly ridiculous notion.

So I leave you with today’s lesson in food production. Cows produce milk which can be made into cheese. And, just in case you need a review, chickens produce eggs.

Class dismissed.