_good Cooks Bad Cooks Recipes

Steps:

• For those of you who didn't take high school Spanish this translates to 'The Rocks'. Las Piedras Ranch owned by Dwain and Sandy Riney of Montgomery, Texas, is aptly named. Located in Real County, WNW of San Antonio, Las Piedras Ranch exemplifies the Texas 'Hill Country'! Their ranch, though not large by Texas standards, supports a healthy population of native wildlife and is also host to numerous exotic species. These wild, free ranging exotics escaped from neighboring ranches years ago. Dwain and Sandy recently invited me down to cook for some of their hunters. This particular hunt is a 'special hunt' for both the Riney family and the hunters. Once a year Dwain and Sandy donate a hunt for exotic species at Las Piedras to the Montgomery County Cattle Barons' Ball and benefit auction. The money raised from this annual event benefits the Montgomery County Unit of the American Cancer Society. In the course of my visit Dwain pulled out the 'ranch recipe box' and selected several favorites of his and Sandy's that he thought I'd like. In addition Sandy has since called me with a couple of other old family favorites. We hate to think of family heirlooms disappearing, but it happens when you prepare these recipes. My thanks to Dwain and Sandy for sharing them and inviting me down to share their corner of heaven in the Texas Hill Country!Spiced with More Tall Tales - Appetizers

Steps:

• Cooks come in all shapes, sizes, and with different abilities. Over the years I've been party to some awful good cookin'. On occasion though, I've had meals placed in front of me which would make a TV dinner seem like a miracle from a high falutin' New York City restaurant. Honest mistakes can occur in the kitchen whether it be at home or in camp. Sometimes it is just a brain cramp on the part of the cook, and other times the results fall into that category of natural disasters known as "Acts of God!" Whatever the reason, the praise when deserved goes to the cook and, likewise, the blame must also be upon his or her shoulders. It would be a dull book which just listed the good cooks I've known over the years. How ever, a couple of cooks on the other end of the spectrum deserve some recognition.Growing up in the 50's and 60's, several of the national outdoor magazines graced our mail box each month. I remember my dad commenting on an article about some guys on an elk hunt in the Selway River country with an outfitter. Dad said, "if we ever hit the big time, we're gonna go on a hunt like that!" Dad went on to say how much fun he thought it would be to go on a hunt and let someone else do all the camp chores and cookin', leaving a guy with nothing to worry about except hunting. Raising four kids on a sheet metal worker's wage pretty much precluded that from happening without some unknown rich relative leaving the folks a big pile of money. Reality hit me, just like it did my dad, when I went to work for game warden wages. When I hired on in 1978, I probably could've just afforded one of those hunts advertised in the 50's and 60's!Anyway.....little did I realize, later events would unfold allowing me to experience two such hunts that had formerly just been dreams of Dad and me. You're probably wondering about now just how relative to camp cookin' this all is. Right? Well, read on!From June of l987 until July of l989 I was the first full time undercover investigator for our department. As an undercover wildlife investigator, we focused, in part, on outfitters. Some were unlicensed, illegal outfitters and others were licensed outfitters who had a tendency to bend things. In cooperation with another western state, I hunted two different big game seasons with an outfitter who liked to bend the boundaries of one of our national parks. The agency in question felt uncomfortable using one of their officers because of the chance of recognition by the targeted outfitter. As a result I was our agency's contribution and the other state provided the funds and directed the investigation. A dream come true, or so I thought!Good camp cookin' can be the hallmark of any outfitter whether they a operate a hunting or fishing camp or are just a recreational outfitter. In the two years I hunted with this outfit we endured two different cooks. One washed his hands regularly but was awful short on experience and the other fella knew his way around the kitchen, but didn't wash his hands as often as I think he should have.I kind of felt sorry for the kid who cooked on my first hunt. This particular outfitter ran an outdoor leadership program for kids during the summer months and some of these kids were later hired on as help during the big game seasons. Most of these kids were disadvantaged and came from big metro areas in the east. (Someone once asked me what I considered back east, anything east of Cheyenne, Wyoming, qualifies!) As I was saying, as best I could figure out, this was the first job of any kind this kid had ever had. That, plus the cultural shock of a hunting camp, and some over-bearing bosses put this fella at a further disadvantage. More than once, with a cook tent full of anxious guides and hunters waiting for some grub, one of the brothers who owned this outfit would have to tell this poor kid what to do. Not good! One incident sticks out in my mind. Jerry, my hunting partner from Louisiana, our guide and I got back to camp early one afternoon while every one else was still hunting. Jerry and I walked around camp for awhile to loosen the joints after a day of riding and both ended up in the cook tent. Fried chicken was on the menu. Jerry, being from Louisiana, had more than just passing knowledge of fried chicken as did I, having eaten it every Sunday afternoon while growing up. Just like my first experience cooking fried chicken, this kid did all right on the frying part. This particular outfit had a big commercial-type propane stove. Most camps wouldn't have anything this big, but our base camp was at the end of the road and they were able to haul this in by vehicle. He cooked the chicken in two big deep pans with about four inch sides. He and the two camp jacks put the chicken in the oven to keep warm, then began to discuss how they were going to make the gravy. About this time Jerry and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows. We both started to wander so as to get a little closer to the action. In each of the deep fry pans resided about two inches of cooking oil and rendered chicken fat. We both looked on in amazement as the cook put a three pound coffee can of flour in each pan and began to stir it. About this time the two camp jacks allowed as that they thought he needed more flour, so in went another coffee can of flour in each pan. Still it didn't look right to them! While they discussed adding yet more flour, Jerry and I said to hell with bad manners and offered our advice to the cook! At this point he had six plus pounds of flour in each of his pans which, with the amount of grease involved, would've required a twelve yard cement mixer truck and a tanker truck full of milk to make gravy. From our point of view it would have been fun to watch, but this was our dinner we were looking at. At this point we decided to jump in and help. First, we threw out about ninety percent of what he had started and had no trouble making gravy for sixteen people with what was left. Neither this kid nor I were the first or the last cooks to ever screw up a batch of gravy. The next year though the cook was different. The kid had obviously cooked in camp before. The first two or three days, the grub really stuck to ones ribs. But, as time wore on I noticed he seldom, if ever, washed his hands. Elk hunting can be hard work and big appetites result. Before I go further, let me give you a better mental picture of our camp. The road I mentioned earlier dead ends right on the border of a National Park. It was situated in a large meadow with a crystal clear creek running within just a few feet of camp. We hunters and the guides slept either two or four to a teepee. Besides the large cook tent, there were two smaller tents for tack and supplies. The horse corrals set on the south edge of camp and a portable toilet set on the north side of the camp exactly eighty seven steps from the door of my teepee! Anyone who's hunted elk knows how physically demanding it can be. When you are an undercover investigator hunting elk, there is an additional mental challenge. According to my notes, things started to go hay wire the afternoon of day four. I didn't really feel sick that evening, I just knew that I didn't feel good either. I hit the bed ground just after supper about 9:00 pm. Few things in life hold more terror than waking up in the middle of the night realizing two things. First, you're not sure of where you are at or where the door is. The second is even worse, your belly is telling your brain you have a very short time to locate immediate seating where the place setting consists of a roll of soft paper 4½" in width! This happened to me about 3:00 am after waking from a deep sleep. I didn't count the steps that first trip, that came later. Counting the steps was just something I did to break the monotony of the trip! To say I slept uneasily the next hour and a half would be an understatement. At breakfast, I felt just so so. Before we left camp I broke into my own private stash of "paper place settings" and stuffed a whole roll into my saddle bags along with my lunch. Diarrhea under the best of circumstances is very unpleasant! Riding a horse and hiking are not recommended activities when one is so afflicted. The side effects induced by a saddle are most unpleasant! Day five of my hunt wasn't D-Day, but it came close to the "Longest Day" in my life up to that point.I caught some good natured ribbing in the cook tent that night because of my prowess in dismounting a horse, tying it up, and locating suitable cover in record time. Two others in camp mentioned at dinner they weren't feeling all that well themselves. Due to my condition, I ate very sparingly that night. Before dawn the next day I'd made two treks of a hundred seventy-four steps each. Day six I spent in camp within easy walking distance of the privy. When the other hunters came in that night I had company. One of the owners and one of the hunters were in the same or worse shape than me. In fact, I'd started to feel better and there was more time between treks. Feeling a little better and being very hungry nearly spelled catastrophe. Mexican food is one of my favorites! Despite feeling better, I made three round trips of one hundred and seventy four small steps before dawn. Now another problem began to surface. It came as a great surprise to find a line for the privy about a eighty small steps into my third journey. Day seven was spent just like day six but with more company. When the hunters came in, it appeared the grub was only sticking to the ribs of half the camp. Day Eight saw me over the hump, so to speak, and able to get on with the hunt/investigation. To this day, I'm not sure what caused this "adventure", but I do know for sure it made a bunch of people miserable. It might have been clear cold creek water which caused the problems, but since then I've avoided cooks who don't wash their hands very often.A Back Country Guide to Outdoor Cooking Spiced with Tall Tales

Steps:

• One of the advantages of writing your own cookbook is being able to leave out your least favorite foods! In my case it's grits and green lima beans. Two things that I figure you eat just before you eat each other! In college one of my roommates was from Florida. Despite the Southern genes in my system, Tom, my roomate, was unable to convince me grits were real food. At the risk of offending those who may care for grits, I didn't include any recipes utilizing them. In today's society it is often fashionable to blame one's adult dysfunctions on a troubled youth. Looking at grits, no matter what you put on them, reminds me of the gallons and gallons of hot mush I ate as a kid. Nothing against my mom, but by the time I left home, I'd more than had a belly full of mush. Tom tried several remedies on grits when we lived together. Eggs with runny yolks, lots of butter, gobs of melted cheese, nothing could disguise the fact that grits look like hot mush. The other Southern dish I ate as a kid, which I didn't and still don't like, is succotash. I'm not sure who thought to call corn mixed with green lima beans succotash, but I care neither for the name or the dish. Why spoil good sweet corn with lima beans?Anyway...please, don't feel offended by the omission of these two things if they are among your favorite foods. Indeed, please feel free to make them and serve them with anything you find in this book that they will go with. Just don't give me any credit for the meal, whether good or bad.A Back Country Guide to Outdoor Cooking Spiced with Tall Tales - Camp Cooking with Dutch Ovens

Steps:

• If you're not a duck hunter or married to a duck hunter, just skip this recipe. Personally, I've never tried to cook a coot, primarily because I've never even shot at an "Ivory Billed Mallard". Remember, this is the guy who will eat every thing except grits and green lima beans. In this modern age, it seems to me, too many people blame events in their childhood for the mistakes or failures they make as adults. Some rightly so, but I can't help but feel a lot of it is over done!So where is all this leading, you ask yourself? Yup! you guessed it, my childhood. Since my dad first took me duck hunting at age three, the list of things I've done in life longer than I've duck hunted is fairly short. Memories of those first duck hunts are still vivid. Back in that distant past, I learned that the preferred duck of those who wait at home while others duck hunt, to be mallards. Those of the green headed variety! My dad, being a pretty fair hand with a shotgun, seldom got skunked in those days. He'd been there before, but it was a new experience for me, just four years old. About the only thing flying in the marsh that day were coots, which Dad had several different adjectives to describe. I didn't understand why dad didn't shoot them as they patterned by. At that time I obviously thought-ducks are ducks! Wrong! How long I pestered Dad to shoot them, I can't remember. What I do remember is him saying, "Mother didn't like any kind of ducks except those with green heads" and it wouldn't be very smart to take something home she didn't like. Though I was just four years old, that part I understood! I'm sure Dad first passed this recipe on that day. Over the years, Dad repeated this recipe so many times I've memorized it without ever having cooked it.A Back Country Guide to Outdoor Cooking Spiced with Tall Tales - Fowl & Fish

Steps:

• If you like to eat, taking off on a back country trip with someone you don't know well who says he will do the cooking, presents the same chance for success as going on a blind date arranged by your sister. But...as an old boss of mine used to say, "Life is nothing but a series of missed opportunities!" You have to take the chance, but it's unwise to let your expectations get too high. Anyway...In late August, 1983, my boss passed some information on to me about two fellas who had drawn permits to hunt bighorn sheep along Idaho's Middle Fork of Salmon River and were allowing two other guys to go hunting in their place. Such a transfer is, of course, contrary to Idaho Code. Al told me to put together an operation which if successful might educate these guys and generate a little income for the state judicial system at the same time. I enlisted Russ Kozacek and Paul Valcarce to help with the operation. The plan went something like this. Paul and I would fly a float boat into Indian Creek and float down to the mouth of Loon Creek and meet Russ with his pack string. Russ and Paul would head up toward Norton Ridge where our informant said these guys planned to hunt. I would set up surveillance on a trail junction should they miss the guys up on the mountain. Russ and I split picking up the camp groceries and cooking duties. I would take care of everything along the river, and Russ would provide for Paul and him while on horseback. No problem!?!?!Russ readily admits that he and I come from different camp cooking schools. Russ graduated with honors from the school that teaches folks to fix the simplest, quickest recipes that result in the fewest dirty dishes. The ability to boil water is high on the list of criteria required to graduate from this particular school that shall remain un-named here! The grub in his camp isn't fancy but there is always enough. That is, until this trip.At the appointed time we met at the US Forest Service tent frame located about a half mile below the confluence of the Big Loon Creek with Middle Fork.Let me digress here and tell you a little more about where we met. At this time the USFS stationed a person at the tent frame during the summer float season. The fireguard had pulled out just a week before we arrived. Among other duties, this person kept the one-hole outhouses located at float camps supplied with toilet paper. More than once I'd stopped to re-supply when my own stocks of this vital commodity ran low.While Paul and I sorted his stuff, Russ started putting things in two different piles. One pile they would take with them on the trail, and another pile to leave with me at our base camp. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Russ pick up some of the "Woodsy Owl" drawstring garbage bags to stow stuff in out of the tent frame. Coincidentally, the fireguard kept his extra TP in the same bags hung on a nail next to the door. With all three of us working, it didn't take long to get the pack stock loaded. After agreeing on radio codes and check-in times, Russ and Paul pulled out.I squared my gear around after they left, then pulled a paperback book out of my duffel and began the surveillance. I fixed a chicken and pasta dish in my 10" aluminum DO and sat on the porch maintaining surveillance as long as I had reading light. Then it came time to light a lantern and move inside. I reached into the "Woodsy Owl" bag for a roll of TP prior to taking a stroll up the hill to the privy. Only when we compared notes several days later did we determine that we'd made simultaneous discoveries! I reached in expecting to grab a soft round roll, not a foil wrapped package containing freeze-dried beef stroganoff! Meanwhile, up on Norton Ridge, Russ ended up being the one to grasp what I was looking for! Later, there was considerable confusion over WHO was responsible for the switch! In my case I substituted a copy of the previous year's fishing regulations for what I needed, while Russ and Paul split a can of kipper snacks and a couple of granola bars found at the bottom of a saddle bag.If there is a moral to this story it's this. Even if you're not the cook, at least check to make sure the cook packs the grub!Spiced with More Tall Tales - Meats